OK, so I've gotten various requests for super angsty fics over the years and I usually resist because, as you know, happy endings are my thing. But this idea came to me today and wouldn't let me go so I'm posting it with the following warnings: HEAVY ANGST. DRUG USE. NO HAPPY ENDING. SMEXY TIMES WITH SLIGHT DUBCON ELEMENTS. REFERENCES TO EVENTUAL MCD.

And I doubt very much I'll ever write anything like this again because it made me too sad. So please don't ask. Thank you to my wonderful beta nocturnias for reading this over for me.

She was disappointed in him, he could see it in her eyes in spite of the drug-fueled euphoria coursing through his veins. "Oh, Sherlock," she said, mouth turned down at the corners as she closed the door behind her and entered his sitting room.

"Oh, Molly," he said, trying for mocking, but surprising himself when he sounded...wistful? Sad? Impossible, not with that much heroin in his veins. He hadn't bothered putting away the paraphernalia this time, left it sitting out in the open for anyone - for her - to see. He'd known she was coming, that she was the one John would have begged to try to talk sense into him, and he'd wanted her to see just how hopeless a cause that was.

She said nothing more, simply took off her raincoat and set it on the hook next to the Belstaff he doubted he'd ever wear again. It had gone a bit ratty and needed a good dry cleaning, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not after the diagnosis and the proclamation of 'no more than six months'.

Brain tumor. Of all the ills he could have fallen prey to - of all the deaths he'd predicted for himself - this wasn't one of them. He waved his hand over to the medical file sat on the coffee table. "Read it," he told her and she picked it up obediently.

He watched her face as she opened the file, saw the disappointment and hints of anger turn to fear and sorrow, just as he'd known they would. There were tears in her eyes and her hands were trembling as she set the documents back down on the table and crossed over to where he was sitting in his chair.

"Oh Sherlock," she said again, so sadly, so much pain in her voice and her eyes that he couldn't stand it. Reaching up he grabbed her arms, pulling her down roughly so that she sprawled across his lap, her squeak of alarm drowned out by the insistence of his mouth against hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss; there was no time for gentle for them now. He'd wasted too many years pushing her away, and the heroin was singing in his blood and all he wanted to do was feel her. Taste her. Drown in her. His fingers were tearing at her blouse while she tried to protest, but he ignored her words, knowing them for lies. She wanted him, he wanted her; why complicate things when this might be the only time for them? When the thing in his brain would take over his life entirely?

Not that he'd let it; Sherlock Holmes would go out on his own terms, long before the more debilitating effects set in. "Six months," he growled against Molly's throat, sucking angry red marks into her soft, yielding flesh as he kept her trapped against his body. "Six fucking months." The euphoria was fading, the drugs no match for the bone-deep burn of despair/anger/frustration flooding into him. Too long pent up - lust, self-loathing, all of it needing to be vented, and Molly Hooper in his arms at last - too late. No happy ever after, no walking into the sunset with the woman he could only now admit he loved...no.

Not another damn minute would he waste.

The chair was too confining; he couldn't touch her the way he wanted to; with another growl, he lifted her in his arms. She automatically wrapped her legs around his waist, their lips meeting in a series of hard, urgent kisses as he carried her to the sofa. She'd made no sounds of protest, hadn't resisted, and he found himself unaccountably angry at her for it. Why wasn't she screaming at him, slapping him, telling him to let her go? He didn't deserve her, why didn't she understand that?

"Tell me to stop." He'd dropped her onto the sofa, covered her with his body, pressing her into the leather cushions with his hands holding tightly to her wrists, trapping them against the armrest above her head. "Tell me. Now."

She shook her head, tears on her cheeks, hair disheveled, clothing awry, and remained mute. Stubborn Molly Hooper; she never reacted the way he predicted she would. Even now. Anger burned low in his belly, anger and lust and a thread of fear and sorrow he willfully ignored, pushed aside as he lowered his head and kissed her again.

He wasn't gentle; he couldn't be gentle if he tried, not now. His tongue invaded; her lips parted as he clashed his mouth against hers with a brutal desperation that part of him observed in utter horror. She still made no protests, no complaints. Even when he tasted blood she didn't cry out or push him away.

He released her hands in order to tear at her clothing, finishing the job he'd started by yanking her blouse off and roughly shoving her bra down so that her sweet, sweet breasts were revealed to his sight for the first time (possibly the last time, surely she'd never let him touch her again after this, no don't think about that, stay in the now, Sherlock).

He took a moment to appreciate the sight, before reaching out and squeezing them together, leaning down to suck both nipples into his mouth, grazing them with his teeth, biting down on the aureoles, digging his nails into the soft flesh.

Still no protests, no whimpers of pain, her hands lying limp above her head instead of pushing him away - why wasn't she pushing him away?! "Tell me to stop," he lifted his head to say again, desperately this time, but again, she shook her head 'no'. Her eyes were steady on his, filmy with unshed tears but he knew the tears were for him and not for himself, and grew angry all over again.

He didn't deserve her - not her sympathy, not her friendship, not her love, and he needed her to see that.

He knelt up in order to remove his own clothes, as uncaring of them as he had been with hers, and she sat up to help him, wriggling out of her trousers and knickers (bright pink with kittens around the elastic), kicking them down to the foot of the sofa while he yanked his own trousers off. She managed to undo and remove her bra before he was on her again, his body hard and unyielding against hers, his erection throbbing and almost burning where it touched the springy curls of her mons pubis.

She made a sound - finally! - but it was a groan of pure desire, that shot straight to his cock and actually caused a few hot spurts of semen to be released between their bodies.

All reason left him at that moment; he kissed and nipped his way down her body, leaving angry purple marks in his wake as he finally thrust his head between her thighs, pulling her legs over his shoulders and fucking her hard with his tongue. Oh, she was noisy now, soft mewls and gasps soon turning into loud moans and near-sobs of his name. Her hands were in his hair, tugging hard, but not to pull him away, only closer, urging him to bury himself deep within her.

If only he could; he'd never leave her, stay within her forever. But not like this; he lifted his head, the taste of her on his tongue, the smell of her in his nose and her musky juices covering his lips and chin. She made a whimper of protest; he could tell she'd been close but he needed to feel her around him when she came. Someone more unselfish, more giving, would have gotten her off first but he couldn't wait, not another second longer. Rearing up on his knees again, he lunged down, covering her body with his own and thrust into her at almost the same moment.

"Oh, Sherlock," she moaned, gasping out his name as she dug her fingers into his shoulders. He kissed the breath out of her, inhaling her scent, chanting her name against her lips as he thrust, hard, filling her and being filled by her in turn. He wormed his arm beneath her sweat-drenched form, clutching her to him, feeling her legs wind themselves around his waist to lock him in place, to keep him deep within her.

He felt her come, only minutes after entering her, saw her face contort with the ecstasy that could so easily be mistaken for pain if viewed objectively. Not that he would ever be able to view her objectively, not ever again, damn his brother and his careful coaching against sentiment and love, and damn himself for taking those lessons to heart until it was almost too late to unlearn them.

He continued moving within her, feeling the approach of his own completion , wishing simultaneously to reach the high and to never have this moment end. But no pleasure can be sustained forever, as he'd already learned, and so he came with a rush and a groan, resting his forehead in the curve of her shoulder, shuddering with his release and finally stilling his body.

He shifted them so that they lay on their sides, face to face, Molly's fingers tracing the curve of his ears, the high arch of his cheekbones, brushing his sweaty curls off his forehead. "You should get a second opinion," she started to say, but he shushed her with a kiss.

"That was the second opinion. Or rather, the third. Mycroft wanted to be very sure, insisted I see the best neurologists out there," he said after a long, silent moment. The sofa was uncomfortable against his skin, sticky and damp, but Molly was in his arms and he never wanted to let her go, not even to move to his bedroom.

"Of course, I should've known," she said quietly, not bothering to hide the sadness in her eyes. "And of course you've discussed treatment options..."

"No treatment options will effect a cure, only offer the potential for a slightly longer prognosis," he said, tangling his fingers in her hair and pulling her face close for another deep, lingering kiss. "And many could potentially make things worse. So I've elected just to be monitored and slightly medicated...well, self-medicated," he added bitterly, nodding toward the drug apparatus still lying on the coffee table. "If I have to go, Molly, I much prefer going on my own terms. You understand."

She did, he could see it in her eyes even as the tears finally spilled and formed wet paths down her cheeks. She dashed them away with one hand, sniffling as she nodded. "But not yet," she said. "Please Sherlock, not until...not yet."

He considered her request, gave it serious thought before answering. "Will you stay with me? Be with me?"

"Every step of the way," she promised. "And you know John and Mary will as well. They love you, Sherlock. You shouldn't leave them just thinking you've gone on a bender. Tell them," she urged. "Tell Mrs. Hudson and Greg. They deserve to know the truth."

He considered that request, stifling his initial urge to laugh, knowing what an ugly sound it would have been. His plan had been simple: no one but his parents were to know the truth, and Mycroft, but the second Molly entered his flat the plan had gone out the window. He didn't even have to ask himself why he'd told her the truth, after making sure to drive John away still unenlightened.

"I love you," he said, instead of responding to her request. "I've loved you for a long time now and I've never told you and for that, Molly Hooper, I am so very, very sorry."

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes," she said, a tender smile curving her lips even though there were still tears glistening on her cheeks. "For a very, very long time now. And I'm not sorry at all."

He pulled her closer, rested his chin on the top of her head, and resolved to last as long as he could. Not so long that she was forced to watch him disintegrate and fall apart under the weight of his illness, but long enough to ensure that her last memories of him were among the best of her life.

It was the very least he could do for the one who mattered most.