We were walking through London at midday when we heard the screaming, high and wailing and keening and awful. Everyone was running away from some unseen force and typically we ran towards it, full tilt, excitement and fear tingling through my every hair. I don't remember much else. All I know is that I'm now on the ground, pebbles and larger rocks dig into my back, I've got a splitting headache- a bright beam of light in the darkness is torture, and this man made of impossible thoughts lays compressed on top of me in this strange cage of dusk.

"John," he says quietly, deeply, "I need you to stay calm." I can feel the rumble of his throat gently vibrate through his chest on to mine. His breath is hot and tickles past my ear. He's breathing heavily. Is he scared?

"Sherlock," I say, keeping my voice at the same level. "What on Earth?"

"There's been an explosion. You've hit your head. You must stay awake," and the slight waver confirms it. He is scared. "A building collapsed and fell the wrong way. We're buried, John. You need to stay awake until help comes."

His words feel blurry, his throat rumbles and a small beam of light flashes down into his hair. Following the motes of dust on that jolly sunbeam shows me that digging our way out is impossible- thousands of pounds of concrete and steel and plaster are pushing in on us. His hair has gone near white with dust, and there's a smudge of black below his eye, high on his cheekbone. Moving my eyes hurts, so I focus again on his face which is only inches away from mine.

It's intimidating, how intelligent a man can be. He looks with a glance but sees absolutely everything. A small bit of shaving cream left behind an ear. He sees the slightest tan line. He can consider a scar and deduce the cause. With just a glance.

I lay underneath him and his full scrutiny is on me. Is he worried? He can see the entire world, its entire history with just a glance. What can he see when he focuses all of his attention? Can he see my pulse in my neck? He can probably hear it. I wouldn't be surprised if he could smell it. I am afraid my closely guarded secrets will tumble out by their own volition. Secrets I didn't know I had. Secrets that only dying people realize they might have.

Trying to control my instincts, my biological functions through my haze- my likely concussion. Is it possible to control one's pupils? No, the concussion will disguise such base desires. Can he smell the hormones rushing off of me? It's been so long. Excitement of death, of life never came in such a rush with any of my girlfriends as they are rushing now. Hormones rushing and running off of me like rain, subconscious scent screaming "PICK ME TAKE ME CHOOSE ME LOVE ME." Traitorous body. My pupils are out of my control from my bashed head and biological voracity. I feel out of control. My heart, my mind, my body.

That full scrutiny. The wrinkle of brow. The hitch in my breath. Reminder to self; we are currently trapped under thousands of pounds of concrete and steel. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear is the emotion to grasp right now. Fear and adrenaline should be seizing me, not this strange sensation of hunger.

I'm trying to return that gaze. See him how he sees me. In an instant, I see the world how I imagine he does. I can hear his breath, harsher than its normal steady pattern. His nostrils flare so slightly, subconsciously? Are my pheromones enough for him to smell? Those eyes, so blue, nearly black. His brows crinkled in such a way I've only seen when truly perplexed. A small, nearly invisible drop of sweat gathers on his severe cupid's bow. His bottom lip slowly, aided by his tongue, slides up over his top lip to capture the moisture.

He's dangerous. He's volatile. Sometimes I look at him and he's absolutely calm but I can never tell when he might burst into flames. Other times he is combusting around the room like a giant spark, and suddenly fizzles out, doused by water.

We lay there for ages. The plaster and rock and debris around us block sounds from the outside world, but gravity still works its magic around us. We can hear the creaking and the awful sound of heavy material hitting the ground. Might we be so unlucky that it decides to collapse on to us? We are tiny. We are miniscule. Giant minded and fragile bodied. The sunbeam moves away from Sherlock's hair and moves further down his back as time progresses. How is it possible for time to move when any moment might be your last?

"John." Sherlock says again, quietly.

"Sherlock."

He rests his head down above my shoulder and against my neck, "You must stay awake." Throaty rumbles accompanied by terrifying collapsing rumbles.

"I know."

Moments pass and there's only silence. Terrifying, abysmal silence.

"I'm scared, Sherlock."

"I can hear your heart."

One of my fears confirmed.

"As long as I can hear your heart, John, you know that we are both alive. Your heart beating keeps you alive, and as long as I know you are alive I know that I am alive. You know I am a logical man, but sometimes I fear my own existence. Sometimes, John, I fear that I do not exist outside of my own mind. You remind me that I do. When your heart beats and I can hear it and I can feel it, I know that I must also exist." He mutters it all so quietly into my throat, his voice barely above a whisper directly into my ear.

"I've doubted my existence so many times."

I turn my head towards him, slowly. Mindful of my injury. My head is still pounding but my heart feels like it's combusting.

His eyes are closed and his brow has relaxed.

"You're real, Sherlock. You are absolutely real. We are trapped under a fallen building that is only collapsing more. We can be destroyed in a single moment by a single column giving out. We are existing simultaneously, breathing the same stale air but we are not afraid our deaths. We fear that we never even existed in the first place."

"That's not exactly true, John." His lips are barely moving, but his words are clearer than any note of music I've heard and more terrifying than the sound of collapse.

"I fear your death. I fear what it might do to me. You're the first person to actually mean anything at all. You don't make sense, and my reality shouldn't be based on your proximity but it is. I'm only alive for as long as you can witness me, John."

"The frailty of genius, I believe you said."

"It's so much more than that. Even if I wasn't a genius, I think I'd still base just as much of my validity on your continuous life."

I am able to move a little bit. I slowly and carefully bring my arms up and around his waist. His arms are resting on either side of my head, his full weight pressing against me. He relaxes as I hold him and as he holds me the best he can.

He opens his eyes and looks into mine.

"How's your head?" every word still carries through his chest.

"Still here. Hurts a bit."

He lifts himself off of me a bit, but only to get comfortable. Who knows how long we'll be trapped. Who knows if we'll survive any rescue?

I am terrified more of this man and his thoughts than I am of dying. I carefully rub his back as I turn my head into a more natural position so I can maintain eye contact. It's getting darker and we still can't hear any sign of a rescue party. Our eyes have adjusted to the strange light, and Sherlock tells me,"Your heart is still racing. Normally humans are quick to adapt to disasters or sudden changes. They calm and learn to wait, but your heart will constantly speed again after a few moments of order. So you're either about to have a heart attack- which I doubt- or you have something you need to say but you're too afraid. John, we might die. I've already told you that I base my entire existence around the fact that your heart beats."

I retract my arms from around his waist as best as I can and squeeze them up between us. As I grab the lapels of his coat, I see that he's still thinking. Sod thinking. Sod vision. I don't think I can bear to see his face when he realizes what I'm trying to accomplish.

I can feel every muscle in his body against mine, and I can feel every word he speaks through my chest, and I can smell every breath and I can taste every thought.

Our lips touch, just for a moment. I realize how dry and cracked mine are from labored breathing compared to how wet and smooth his are from constant excursion of keeping himself from completely crushing me. He tries to pull back but my grip is too strong on his lapels. His thigh muscle is against my groin and I try so hard not to scare him.

"John…"

Crunch. "HELLO!" A stranger's voice high and resonate through our deadly fortress.

Help has come.