A/N: I spent a lot of time on this chapter, so I really hope you enjoy it. (I know I did.)

"This night has opened my eyes and I will never sleep again."

I'm dreaming. I must be dreaming – because in this world, Sherlock Holmes doesn't do "feelings." He doesn't satiate unrequited love. He isn't a sexual being. He'd never apologize, let alone admit to being wrong. He wouldn't express emotion so plainly on his face. He'd never ask for forgiveness or make an attempt at redemption. He doesn't care what people think of him. And he would most definitely never react in such a way to a girl as fucked as me.

No, if anything, Sherlock would have good taste. He'd like the classy, brilliant, interesting, and devilishly sexy ones. I'm not that at all. Yes, granted, I'm pretty intelligent, to his standards. But other than that, what do I have that he could possibly desire? I have about as much sex appeal as a fucking hamster. I look like a corpse – lanky and inelegant. I don't dress at all provocatively, and my sytle is far from sexy. When I talk, I'm a bumbling idiot, and I overthink and overreact in most situations.

So why exactly are his lips pressed to mine as he caresses my cheek? Why has he suddenly shed his emotionless façade in exchange for something so much more raw and passionate?

"You're thinking." Sherlock has pulled away ever-so-slightly, leaving almost no space between their lips.

"Is it annoying you?"

He frowns. "No, it's... disconcerting."

She gives a noncommittal hum and decides to be bold. She pulls him in by the back of the neck, to kiss and nip at his collarbone. From under him, she can feel his whole body stiffen the second her lips meet his skin. He braces one arm on the wall beside Eva's head, and places his free hand on her hip. Eva feels a surge of encouragement from the small, almost undetectable hitch in Sherlock's breathing as her lips works their way up Sherlock's neck, nibbling and breathing hot air on that incredibly sensitive little spot right under his ear. He gulps, and before she has a chance to do some real damage to his composure, he takes a handful of her hair and pulls her back up to him. He looks into her eyes, panting, for just a moment before removing her glasses and gently placing them on the counter. Almost immediately, he seizes her mouth in a desperate, bruising kiss.

With one hand tangled in her hair and the other holding onto her hip tightly, Sherlock pulls Eva against him, smashing their hips together. The tiny gasp that Eva emits at the feeling of Sherlock's (seriously impressive) hard-on allows him to force his tongue past her lips to explore the depths of her mouth. She doesn't know where to put her hands – after a lively mental debate, she settles one on his chest and the other tangled in his hair. She pulls his hips to hers again, and a throaty, hoarse moan comes rumbling from Sherlock's chest – and boy, is that erotic. He bites her lower lip, with the most awful/fantastic smirk splayed on his face.

They share a split-second glance before both directing their attention to the path Sherlock's hands are taking up her side to cup her breasts. He's making a conscious effort to steady his breathing, but instead, it comes out as shaky, labored pants. He palms her breasts through the fabric of her dress and kisses her again, this time, with extra passion added to the mix. Eva stifles a whimper as one of Sherlock's hands slowly moves under her neckline, and with just enough room for his hand in the dress, he does something dexterous and unidentifiable (still fantastic, regardless) to her nipple that has her melting into the wall. He sucks along her collarbone and up her neck to whisper in her ear.

"You are just so delightfully devastating – so breathtakingly beautiful."

As much as she enjoys his mouth on her neck (which, really, she does), Eva takes Sherlock's face in her hands and pulls him back up to face her, so she can look into his eyes – so she can discern whether or not he's lying. Because that's what people do.

"No, don't do that. Really – really, please don't." He sighs at her confused expression. "You don't have to believe it, but believe that I'm telling the truth. You may not see it – you may not ever see it – but I do."

"You're wrong, you know."

"I'm not the one with myopia," he says, pointing to her glasses. She closes her eyes and turns her head away. Sherlock takes her face in his hands and says, "Look at me, Eva. You really ought to take heed when I confess to you what I see, particularly when I'm trying to be warm. You should know, by now, that I'm not one to impart false kindness."

She considers this a moment: but doesn't he? He feigns benevolence when it's convenient for him. He could be doing it right now. But what would be his motive behind being so condescending? More importantly, why does he feel the need to tell me such things?

He watches her face contort into a mix of emotions as she stumbles through her thoughts and chuckles to himself. With a handful of her hair, he kisses her lightly on the temple and mumbles, "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."

She stops abruptly, mid-thought. "You did not just quote Shakespeare."

He scoops her up into his arms and says, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." Eva cannot quiet her awkward giggling, especially when Sherlock emits a low chuckle from his chest. He carries her over to sit on the edge of her bed, the atmosphere shifting all-too-quickly into something much more tense.

Eva sits on the edge of the bed as Sherlock kneels behind her, and she wonders if, maybe, he's afraid of screwing up. That might explain why they sit still in that position for a while without actually doing anything, aside from Sherlock running his hands up and down Eva's arms and shoulders. She turns her head to him and says, "Sherlock -" she decides against saying 'it's okay,' and opts instead for, "don't be a tease."

Sherlock smirks as he brushes Eva's hair over one shoulder and kisses the newly exposed skin. Simultaneously, he begins untying the laces of the corset, really fucking slowly. When Eva feels that the corset is loose enough for movement, she stands up, and with her back to Sherlock, she wiggles out of the dress and drapes it over the futon. Sherlock takes Eva's seat at the edge of the bed, watching intently – with a shit-eating grin on his face – as she takes off the gold heels, leaving her in nothing but her knickers. She feels so exposed; she's never been comfortable with the prospect of being naked in front of another person. But she figures that now might be a good time to change that.

She takes a deep breath and turns around, realizing that the most clothing Sherlock has shed has been his coat and loafers. And wow, okay, that makes her feel embarrassed. Don't just stand there like an idiot! She walks up to Sherlock and straddles his lap, biting back a hum when she's reminded of his arousal. She hasn't been paying attention to his facial expressions since dropping the gown, but now that they're situtated so close, she can see that look in his eyes – a mix of frantic nerves, amazement, and the smallest lack of control that seeps through the cracks in the color of his irises. He very hesitantly places one hand over her rib cage and pants heavily as he observes every inch of her exposed skin. She feels the intensity of his gaze, like fire dancing across her skin, and musters up just enough courage to press her whole body against his, taking a handful of that gorgeous head of curls and pulling him into a heavy, passionate kiss.

Sherlock's hands are suddenly everywhere: drawing paths of goosebumps down her back, lightly brushing the layer of skin over her hip bones, teasing the line of skin above her knickers, and finally, coming up to manhandle her breasts. His movements start out a bit desperate, but they soon evolve into something deliberately slow and erotic. What was initially a erratic rhythm of crashing lips, shaky hands, and heavy panting is now sensually executed with masterful hands. Did he just need some time to warm up, or is he really just that fast of a learner? She doesn't get a chance to think about that any further as Sherlock moves them both in one swift motion, so that Eva is positioned on her back in the middle of the bed and he's looming over her.

He meets her eyes again, as if waiting for her to object. Of course, she says nothing, granting Sherlock permission to bite and suck a trail down her neck and chest until he meets the swell of her (inadequate) breasts. He plants light kisses all over the sensitive skin before cupping both breasts in his hands, roughly sucking one nipple into his mouth and prodding at the other with dexterous fingers. I've never liked that before now. Oh god, that tongue... She is vaguely aware of the whimper that escapes her lips and of her hands buried in his hair. She does, however, feel the corners of his lips turn up against her skin. He switches to the other side, sucking and licking while still tending to the other with his fingers. She whimpers again and he laughs, moving his one hand away from her breast and trailing it down her stomach, teasing the skin underneath the waistband of her knickers.

She grabs his wrist and grumbles, "I'm not losing any more clothing until you do."

He smirks and puts his hands up defensively."Be my guest," he says, his voice thick with saliva and desire. Why is that even sexy?

After untucking his shirt, her shaky hands begin fumbling with the top button. She's attempting a slow, sensual pace, but knows she's really failing miserably at making this look sexy. Each button reveals more of his chest, which, before now, she hadn't been turned on by. That night in the alley, she had to undo his shirt to examine his chest. Maybe it's because it's no longer on a clinical level, looking at contusions and examining bone fractures – maybe it's that now, all she can feel is the warmth of his skin and the beating heart that lies beneath it.

As she finishes undoing the last button, she pushes the fabric down his shoulders, and he sits up to toss it off to the side. Eva is nowhere near strong enough to flip them around like Sherlock can, but still, she somehow maneuvers him so that he's on his back and she's on her knees, straddling him, with just enough distance between their hips to deprive them of contact. He grips her hips as she bites and sucks up and down his neck and chest, running her hands along his soft abs and chest and shoulders. She finds a particular spot on his neck that makes him moan against his will.

He brushes her hair behind one ear and whispers in the most shaky, breathless, raw tone she's ever heard, "Eva, about those -" he gulps, "about those awful things... that you said – that you wanted to do t-to me..." She has Sherlock Holmes writhing underneath of her, and boy, is that a heady feeling. "T-tell me."

She smirks and gives a soundless laugh, returning to lavish that spot on his neck right next to his ear. "Hmm," she considers for a moment. She thinks about what she knows about dirty talk – which is truthfully very little – and wonders which key phrases she could use to really fuck with his head. "I've spent quite a lot of time fantasizing about this – about what I'd do to you if given the opportunity." Now is not the time for big words or stellar grammar, Eva. Use imagery – be a storyteller.

"I've dreamt of this - of what it'd be like to touch you, to have you. I've spent entire nights alone in my bed, fantasizing about having you here, in this very spot, letting you have your way with me. I've imagined you taking control - leaving marks on my neck and bruises on my hips. Mostly, I've imagined your hypnotic voice whispering sweet nothings into my ear as you fuck me into oblivion." Fire ignites in his eyes, and as Eva traces her hand along his length over the fabric of his trousers, he growls. "I'd do anything you wanted me to do, anything to sate your desires – whether that be taking you fully into my mouth or riding your cock until you're howling my name."

He takes her by the wrists and flips her onto her back, an animalistic glint in his eyes. He pins her wrists to the duvet on either side of her head, with a most devilish look on his face. His nostrils flare and he smirks, chuckling darkly. "You say such dangerous things, you realize." His voice is the deepest she's ever heard it – a half of an octave lower than usual – with a sadistic element added to it.

"You think you could do better?"

"Are you asking me, or are you telling me?"

She mutters, breathlessly, "I'm hoping."

He laughs again, understanding exactly what she wants from him. He maintains both the depth of his pitch and his grip on her wrists, and while leaning in to suck along her jawline, he says, "I've found myself thinking about you too, you know – about having you, to be precise. I've imagined learning how much almost-touching you'd be able to take before devolving into a wanton, breathless, pleading wreck, every inch of your skin ablaze with lust beneath my touch." He punctuates this by lowering his hips to hers ever-so-gently, only making the slightest bit of contact before moving away. "I'd be shamelessly poetic about it all – you know, entangling your body's carnal desires with your heart's undeniable passion. The line between heartfelt intentions and filthy indulgence would become almost indistinguishable in the midst of it all." He begins biting her neck and collarbone, making her whimper in his grip. Did he rehearse this? "I'd tease you relentlessly until my name echoing from your lips became a prayer." He kisses down her body, removing his grip on her wrists in favor of slinking down the bed. He touches her stomach, her ribcage, her hips, her thighs, and everywhere but the one place she wants him to. "Then – and only then – would I give you what you want." She shudders at this: at his voice, yes, but mostly, at his suggestion: until my name echoing from your lips became a prayer. Then – and only then – would I give you what you want.

"Christ," she groans.

"Sherlock is fine." He laughs to himself, taking pleasure in seeing Eva in her current debauched state.

"Sh-Sherlock... fuck. Okay, please -"

His expression morphs into a Cheshire grin as he pulls her knickers down in one swift motion. "Look at you: so turned on by me, and I haven't even touched you." He lays alongside her, his hand trailing across her stomach to lightly tease her sex. With his touch lingering at her entrance, he says, "I want to watch you come undone." He presses one finger into her slowly, adding a devilish little twist at the end, causing Eva to inhale sharply and hold her breath. Sherlock kisses her hard as he works his finger, hardly waiting before pressing a second finger into her. He's so affected by the moan that tumbles from her lips; he regards her form beneath him with wonder and awe. His tongue breaches her lips, demanding entrance, and after a second of hesitation, she grants him access. She lets him seize her mouth as he masterfully works those two fingers into her, curving at the end to brush against that one spot that can make her fall to bits. His lips leave hers as he pulls back to scan her face, to watch her expression as he presses a third finger into her. She can't help being so expressive – her chest heaving, mouth parted slightly, one hand gripping onto Sherlock's shoulder and the other tangled in the sheets. And oh god, he puts his thumb to use; A little to the left – FUCK. She tenses, feeling an orgasm beginning to manifest low in her abdomen.

Sherlock pulls his fingers away slowly, grinning at the priceless expression of loss on Eva's face. He sucks the traces of her from his fingers and growls into her ear, "When you come, I want it to be with me inside of you, fucking you senseless."

She needs no more prompting to begin undoing his belt and unzipping his trousers. Sherlock stands to toe off his socks and remove his trousers and his pants, and before he can take his previous position, Eva takes him by the forearms and guides him to sit on the bed with his back against the wall. She straddles his lap and kisses him softly, passionately, and suddenly, it all feels a bit silly to her.

I'm letting him use me. I'll always just give him whatever it is that he wants, and he'll leave. If he leaves again, I don't know if I'll be able to live with myself.

As if he could hear her doubts, Sherlock says, "Eva, I don't..." He frowns. "I don't know if I'll ever be... I can't change who I am."

"I'm not asking you to."

He sighs, caressing her cheek with one hand. "I don't feel things the same way that others do. I don't have an active libido on a regular, day-to-day basis. And really, expressing myself is not in my nature. I haven't been... sexually active in over a decade, and I'd like you to know that I'm breaking that interval of celibacy because I care for you, and because there's no one I'd rather share my intimacy with."

"It's been about a decade for me too, almost. But why, so suddenly, has the Grinch's heart grown three sizes? Why are you suddenly so poetic and romantic and – dare I say – caring?"

He sighs and gives her a sincerely apologetic look. "Eva, it wasn't sudden. I've felt a stirring in my mind since waking up in your flat after the night in the alley. And I must be truthful – I was planning on returning roughly three weeks ago. I came to your flat upon returning to London, just to see that you were alright. You'd gone to work for the day, so I picked the lock and went inside. I just wanted some clue that would tell me that you were doing well. But then, I found your letters. I spent hours reading them – speculating and musing over them – so I'd read all but the last one before tonight. I've had time to analyze my feelings for you – to decipher my thoughts and make up my mind. And I decided that I was wrong. Sentiment is not a chemical defect found on the losing side."

"So, what exactly does that mean?"

"Must I spell it out for you?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

He grins and bites his lip, looking down to avoid her eyes. "Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt my love."

Eva smiles at the corny reference, but regardless, she tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls him into a deep, heavy, profound kiss. One of her hands trails down his abdomen and she tentatively takes him in hand, lightly at first, then stroking it slowly. Eva thumbs the slit, spreading a bead of precome around the head and slowly moving up and down his length. Meanwhile, all of the breath escapes Sherlock's lungs and his head falls back in ecstasy. He pants heavier now, his hands gripping her hips with a painful force. Eva's lips crash into his, in a less-than-elegant manner. From there, it's a blur of twisted tongues and clashing teeth, demanding and heated. The kiss is broken for a moment so both parties can take a breath, but all hope of breathing ceases when Eva aligns his cock at her entrance. She looks into his eyes for a moment, in search of any sort of hesitation or objection. In response, he cups the side of her face and strokes her cheek with his thumb, nodding to verify that this is, indeed, what he wants.

She lowers herself onto him, sinking down his length slowly, giving her insides a chance to adjust. It's as if all of the oxygen escapes the room, and both of their facial expressions are free of their usual masks. When their hips meet, Eva pauses for just a moment before deciding to move – lifting herself off until only an inch of him remains inside of her before coming back down, hard. Sherlock moans, loudly this time, and he sits up a bit to take her face in his hands and kiss her tenderly. "You are just extraordinary. Feels so good, so right." He slumps back against the wall, his hands trailing down her back before gripping her hips again firmly. He begins moving up to meet her thrusts, guiding her hips with his hands. Without displacing himself, Sherlock flips them so that Eva's laying in the middle of the bed and he's on top of her.

Eva has given up hope of keeping back the moans and obscenities that are spilling from her mouth. "Fuck, Sh-Sherlock, ohmygod." His body is brilliant, and as Eva starts to feel that familiar sensation conjuring up in her abdomen, she claws at Sherlock's back and moans, "I'm close... fucking h-harder."

Sherlock drives into her hard and fast, taking pleasure in the feeling of Eva's nails digging into his back and her ankles clasped around his waist, pulling him closer with each thrust. He changes the angle of his hips, hitting Eva in just the right spot. His head falls to rest on her collarbone, and he growls some more heartwarming things to counteract Eva's devastating obscenities. She tenses around him as she cries out his name, blinded by the electricity surging behind her eyelids. With her walls tightening and pulsing around him, Sherlock's rhythm grows erratic and he tumbles after her, moaning, "Ohmy- f-fuck, Eva." He comes inside of her, filling her with a mix of warmth and fullness, giving a final few hard, shallow thrusts before nearly collapsing on top of her. As they both pant, Sherlock pulls her into the most passionate kiss he can muster up enough energy for before pulling out and collapsing onto the bed beside her.

Eva turns onto her side, tangling their legs together and laying her hand over his heart. He slips his arm under her head and wraps it around her shoulders, landing his hand on the small of her back. He places his other hand on the one she has over his heart. They lay that way for a long, long while.

Eva is the one to break the silence, turning over to fetch something from the floor. She returns with her cigarettes and the ashtray she keeps in the bedside table. She places a cigarette between Sherlock's lips and holds the flame up for him to light it before lighting her own.

"I forgot about the satisfaction in the requisite post-coital cigarette."

Pluto joins them on the bed, purring and taking his spot at the foot of the bed. They lie there smoking, with their legs tangled together, for a short while. The atmosphere is silent aside from the sound of their breathing.

Breathing. It's pretty damn ironic – the symmetry of it all. Since that night in the alleyway outside of Barts, Eva's psychological association with breathing has evolved from emergency instinct, to fear, to bitterness, to longing, to heartache, to sexual desire, and finally, to closeness.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"What are we doing?"

"Well I don't know about you, but I'm basking in the most glorious state of euphoria at the moment."

"That's not what I mean."

"Then, by all means, do enlighten me."

"I mean -" she huffs. "Are you... are you planning on leaving again?"

His voice takes on a somber tone. "Well, that really depends. The answer to which being contingent upon one condition, which is entirely your call. It's up to you to decide whether or not..." His voice cracks. "Whether or not you'll have me."

Are you kidding me? "...You know, as brilliant as you are, you can be remarkably obtuse at times."

"Believe it or not, that's not the first time someone has pointed that out to me."

"You should understand, by now, the severity of my naïvety. You know I'm an idiot." He frowns. "I... I could never turn you away."

Sherlock turns to her and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, caressing her cheekbone with his thumb. He closes his eyes and lightly presses his lips to her forehead, holding the gesture for several seconds before pulling back just slightly to look into her eyes once more.

In that moment, Eva understands. It's inexplicable; she knows nothing in particular – just the gravity of his touch and the warmth in his eyes.

"I fear that, in staying, I'll do nothing but cause pain. I don't want to hurt you – worse, I could destroy you. I meant what I said; I can't change who I am. Most days, I'm cold and insensitive. I'm very much like a child sometimes – especially when I'm bored. I have a tendency to be ignorant and inconsiderate, and I've been told I'm incredibly difficult to be around. I've caused pain for everyone I've ever cared about, in a very deep sense. Moreover, I've never done this before. I've never been with anyone. I've never given myself to anybody fully. And quite frankly, I'm terrified." After a long, heavy pause, he exhales deeply and says, "good god, I need a drink."

He pulls on his pants and shuffles over to the kitchenette, pulling a glass from one cabinet and a new bottle of whiskey from another, as if he'd done it a thousand times. "Make that two," he turns and raises an eyebrow at her, "if you'd be so kind." She puts her bra and her knickers back on and crosses the room to join Sherlock. She walks up behind him and wraps her arms around his waist, pressing her whole body into his back. He smirks but doesn't turn to face her; he just finishes pouring their drinks. Eva hops up to sit on the counter and to reclaim her glasses as Sherlock hands her her drink. He leans against the counter in front of her, between her legs, one hand on her waist, and she lazily wraps her arms around his shoulders. "I won't allow fear to be the thing that lets you slip between my fingers." She kisses him lightly on the forehead. "I'm willing to try if you are."

He pauses to think, for an excruciatingly long moment. He tastes a sip from his glass before saying, thoughtfully, "I was afraid." She looks confused, so he backs up a few measures in his train of thought. "In response to the question in your letter: when I... when I jumped from the roof of Barts, I was afraid. I wasn't afraid of dying, really; I knew that I wasn't going to. I'm not sure what I was afraid of; fear isn't an emotion I experience very often. I was just genuinely petrified, for no rational reason. It was as if I'd suddenly regretted everything I'd ever been – everything I'd ever done. I wished I could start over." He takes a long sip from his glass. "I guess you could say I was afraid of what would come afterward. Maybe I was afraid of dying in a metaphorical sense. Even though I didn't truly die that day, my life as I knew it still ended. Sherlock Holmes is dead."

Eva smirks and takes a slow sip from her glass. With the glass still held to her lips, she says, "Well that's okay. He was kind of a dick anyway."

A/N: I still laugh every time I reread that last line.

I really hope you all enjoyed this fic, and I hope the ending was satisfying; I'm praying that the concluding heap of smut came out as well as I intended. I'm working on the second in the series now, and I think it has a lot of promise. Without giving it all away, I can say that it's not going to be the usual hackneyed sequel - laden with an overbearing amount of domestic fluff. There will be more plot and smut. Honestly, I'm stoked.

Pardon my excessive corny Shakespeare references.

Please let me know what you think! I'm always open to constructive criticism (and I'm not just saying that).

The preliminary quote is from the song titled "This Night Has Opened My Eyes" by The Smiths.