Fic: amo, amas, amat
This fic is like a love poem to myself. I adore Catullus, and have done for years, and so when I saw the prompt on the kinkmeme, I fell over and then wrote for four hours in a sitting, from one AM to five. I didn't remember when I wrote this originally that Holmes had a copy of Catullus in "The Empty House," but that makes it even better. This is edited, and there is a little paragraph added to the very end, but again it is largely the same as the previous version. All the translations are my own, but done very quickly and without all that much thought toward strict accuracy.
amo, amas, amat, Holmes/Watson, NC-17, 4300 words, Catullus spoke his heart and there was no avoiding him if he was to feel at all.
Carmen One
Quare habe tibi quidquid hoc libelli-
qualecumque, quod, o patrona virgo,
plus uno maneat perenne saeclo!
Therefore, have this little scroll,
whatever it is -- oh patron maiden,
let it be everlasting, let it be for the ages
Watson was never able to get the hang of modern languages, and was almost surprised that Holmes could, if he could still be surprised by anything his dearest friend could manage. He had this vague impression of languages as a womanish skill, something for poets and finishing school girls, or at best, diplomats. Most of the good science was happening in England, after all, and he had really gained his fill of traveling. And the romance languages were so illogical -- they frustrated him, and he was no Holmes.
But the dead languages of antiquity, ah. Those were a different story. As a school boy, he had loved his Latin and his Greek, relishing in just how much sense they made, how orderly they were. Unlike French, with its perplexing pronunciation and inconsistent plurals, Latin was predictable and there was no need to make his tongue bend around confusing syllables. He had adored his conjugations and declensions enough that not even Cicero's longest sentence could deter him, and he had been easily first in his class right up till university.
And like all fine students of Latin, he remembered feeling deliciously naughty when he first found a copy of the complete Catullus, moving beyond simple sparrows (which became much more interesting, in retrospect), to far more explicit poetry. He remembered reading it, hunched over like he was hiding something, his face feeling hot as he flipped through the dictionary. Some of the words were so foul that the editor did not even list them, but many generations of school boys before him had helpfully written in the margins, spidery pencil outlining filth.
pedo, pedare, pedavi, pedatus: (v) to bugger, one wrote, and Watson felt a lick of delicious scandal run down his spine.
But then the book slipped deeper into his soul, and he found himself moving past the prurient joy at finding something naughty, and finding the lepidus libellus had more to offer than he previously suspected, a resonance that made him realize quite viscerally why people have been reading mad Catullus for thousands of years. He had brought the book to Afghanistan, the same copy sitting on his shelf at Baker Street, and it had been his companion through loves and loss.
The cover still felt like sand, a little, and he could almost smell gunpowder when he opened it. One would think such associations would deter him, but at this point, Catullus spoke his heart and there was no avoiding him if he was to feel at all.
But such thoughts and such devotion were sentimentality, and so it wasn't the least bit surprising when Holmes stopped (as he, in his usual manner, perused casually through Watson's things) and lifted the small volume in his long fingers, his face amused.
"Love poetry, Watson?" he said. "I would ask if you have a new female with which you are engaging in a spot of wooing, but this book is clearly older than that--" he brought it to his nose, and sniffed it "--indeed, I suspect you took it to the wars."
Watson felt annoyed at the intrusion, even as he was pleased that it wasn't only his imagination and some of the stench of the desert still lingered in those pages.
"You were the boy that only read Seneca, weren't you?" Watson said, moving to snatch the book out of Holmes hands. In retrospect, that was likely a mistake -- the action only brought an impish tinge to Holmes's smile.
"Both Older and Younger, yes, but I also quite liked Cicero. And you were the boy who swooned over Ovid, did you not?" Holmes said, following Watson as he made his way back to his armchair and smiling down at him as Watson sat down, the book on his lap. Watson took a very dignified sip of his tea.
"There was no swooning involved. I had a very healthy respect for the man's command of poetry, yes. And your denial of such beauty continues to demonstrate that you have absolutely no understanding of the written arts," Watson said.
Holmes waved his hand, as if to swat away the accusation. "Literature is not typically useful for detective work, and if it ever happens to be, that would be why I have you. Indeed, you can cover Latin entirely. I never saw the point in learning a language no one speaks."
"The Catholics speak it," Watson said, his voice still attempting peevish, but softened considerably by Holmes's admitting an element where he needed Watson.
"And a barrister would be proud of that technicality, Watson, I'm surprised that isn't Cicero. Now," Holmes said, sitting on the floor near Watson's feet, in what would be an unusual position for any other man. "Read your love poetry to me. If you insist on bringing such things into my home, you should persuade me why I wasted such time on the language in school."
And Watson did, reading his own translations (written in tiny script underneath every Latin text), until Holmes stood up suddenly and went to his violin. Watson fell quiet, the book settling closed once again, and Holmes played long into the night, his eyes closed and Watson strangely riveted, as if to search for the scansion of the notes.
Carmen 65
numquam ego te, vita frater amabilior,
aspiciam posthac? at certe semper amabo,
semper maesta tua carmina morte canam,
My brother, more beloved than life, will I never
look at you again? Certainly, I will always love you,
I will always sing for you, my songs saddened by your death.
And it was to Catullus that Watson turned, after Holmes tumbled over that cliff, Catullus who wrote elegy after elegy for his dead brother, yearning with a sorrow that Watson once again felt reflected in his own heart. For years, Watson felt almost as if he was adrift, as if there was something wrong with a world that Holmes was not in. After Mary died as well, there was nothing more in Watson to grieve, and he felt as if he ceased to exist entirely, as though with no intimate friends he had become unmoored from reality itself.
Then Holmes came back, and Watson took what felt like his first breath in years. And then he fainted dead away,sonitu suopte tintinant aures, geminal teguntur lumina nocte, his ears ringing with their own sound and his eyes enveloped by twin night.
He woke to the taste of brandy on his lips and Holmes's face filling his eyes, and the room felt sharp and new. He touched him, because he had too, and he felt the wings of sparrows beating in his heart and a lick of fire running under his skin, and he knew that he had perhaps more in common with the Greeks than he previously supposed.
It was a revelation as soul-shaking as Holmes's reappearance and he could not speak for a moment with the enormity of it, staring into Holmes's face for long moments in silence, until its expression of worry deepened.
"My dear Watson, are you alright?" Holmes said, and it was his voice.
"Ave" Watson said, his voice insubstantial, before clearing his throat and trying to sit up a bit. "Holmes, I thought you were dead."
Holmes did not move from his crouched position over Watson on the floor, even as Watson pulled himself upward. At this distance, Watson could smell him -- tobacco, resin, the reek of chemicals, and the smell of bitter almonds, a scent similar to cyanide which had always been Holmes to Watson.
"Yes, well, that was the intention," Holmes said. His eyes were locked on Watson, and he was pleased to see some of his same joy reflected there.
And then Watson processed what Holmes had just said, and punched him in the nose. Holmes fell back, shocked and already bleeding a bit.
Watson's voice raised, almost of its own accord, and he said, "You let me believe you were dead when you were not? You better have a bloody magnificent explanation for that."
Holmes was holding his handkerchief to his nose, but the pained look on his face was likely not due to that. "Watson, I'm not entirely sure any explanation will be sufficient. It seemed necessary at the time."
Watson stared at him in a twisting combination of awe at his return and awe at how irritating he could be. Catullus wasn't any help here -- he mourned his brother deeply and he likely would not have punched him had he returned from the dead. He also likely wouldn't have leaned forward and grabbed his brother's coat, yanking him forward into a kiss, but Watson grabbed Holmes.
It was a terrifying risk, taken almost without conscious thought, flush with the conflicting emotions of gratitude and frustration and consuming love.
Watson's world collapsed into only this when Holmes opened his mouth easily under the kiss, and Watson tasted need and blood and him.
Carmen 5
Vivamus mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
rumoresque senum severiorum
omnes unius aestimemus assis!
soles occidere et redire possunt:
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.
da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.
dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,
conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,
aut ne quis malus inuidere possit,
cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.
Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
let us judge the rumors of old men to be
worth nothing but a penny.
The suns are able to rise and to fall,
but when our light has fallen, we
must sleep for night neverending.
So give me a thousand kisses, and then a hundred
and then another thousand, and then a second hundred.
and another thousand still, another hundred --
then, when we have made so many thousands
we will mix them up so that not even we know how many
and no one will be able to be jealous when he finds out
just how many kisses we've shared.
Watson slipped so easily back into the old apartments it was like he never left, though there was more gray in Holmes's hair and he had a bit more trouble moving in the mornings. Mrs. Hudson, still not quite recovered from the shock of her life, seemed to even be pleased at their return.
And they took cases once more, and smoked shag tobacco in the sitting room, and Watson would bully Holmes into eating, or shaving, or not opening that morocco case, but now he had a different tool in his arsenal, and it fell easily within the rest.
Watson rubbed his cheek against Holmes's, kissing him on the fold of his eye, before tracing kisses down his nose.
"You need to shave," Watson said, kissing his cheekbone and feeling the stubble against his lips. Holmes cracked open one eye to look at him balefully and in the blissful stupor that Watson found himself in, he had to resist the urge to chuckle.
"Must you, really?" Holmes said. "It is a physiological fact that the human male likes a moment or two after orgasm simply to think of nothing, and you defy everything and initiate all sorts of conversations."
Despite the crispness of the words, Holmes's eyes were still fuzzy and soft, and Watson could feel Holmes's lips slipping, despite himself, into a smile, moving against Watson's cheek. Watson kissed him again, just for that. Holmes looked heavenward, as if in frustration.
"So, da mi basia mille, eh? Are we on the thousand, or the other hundred?" Holmes said, his voice dry. But his expression was warm, and when Watson stared at him in shock, it softened further.
"Was that the great rationalist Sherlock Holmes quoting love poetry? In Latin no less, which, if I remember correctly, is an entirely useless language?" he said, shock shifting to amusement and a sharp sort of pleasure. "I didn't even know you read Catullus."
Holmes tilted his head to kiss Watson, the arm which had been resting around Watson's waist slowly beginning to trace patterns on skin. "I came across a copy in my travels. It made a good penance for my sins, both large and small. Not to mention, it was a capital disguise all by itself."
It reminded me of you, Watson heard, and wondered how he ever thought this man cold. In a perverse sort of reward, and one he rather thought Catullus himself would approve of, he kissed Holmes again and began once more the long process of losing count.
Carmen 16
Vos, quod milia multa basiorum
legistis, male me marem putatis?
Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.
You, because you've read of my many
thousand kisses, you doubt my virility?
I'll bugger you, and then you'll blow me.
One of the most surprising things about this element of his relationship with Holmes was the man's sheer, wanton inventiveness. It probably should not have been -- Holmes had nothing if not a creative mind, and he was certainly never one to focus on all he had instead of what he could be doing. Watson had witnessed enough of Holmes's reaction to stagnation to realize, when he thought back on it all, that it only made good sense that Holmes brought his drive for experimentation into their bed. And sometimes, to be honest, out of it -- like now, when Holmes eased a piece of paper as easily as breathing into the pocket of Watson's waistcoat, in front of half of Scotland Yard, as they waited together for the villain to return home.
After the deed was done, Holmes fell out of sight, so Watson had nothing to glare at except the small piece of paper. It had the full text of Catullus 16 written on it, with all but the first and last lines crossed out. And underneath, in Holmes's distinctive script, there was written:
John,-- and already at this, there was a thrill --you have ruined me forever. I have never liked this language, but all I can think about now is you leaning into my ear and whispering this to me. Perhaps you would even say it louder, and I shall laugh as if you were quoting some witty epigram or look somber as if you were reminding me to virtue, but in reality, you were telling me filthy, perfect promises, which the author likely intended as a threat, but I will take in no such manner. Few people know Latin as well as you, so you could say this in public, in front of Lestrade, and only we will know what you intend. And I hope you fulfill these words, my dear John. It would be a horrible cruelty for you to place such blasphemy indelibly in my mind and then not have the decency to make it worth my while.
It was signed Holmes, because even in such an intimate and, it must be said, horribly illegal correspondence, the man still hated his first name. Watson read it again, and then had to put it away. He knew he was blushing, much as he had in his dormitory far too many years ago and Holmes, the bastard, looked at him and smirked.
"My, Watson, are you alright? You look flushed," Holmes said, his voice the perfect picture of fraternal concern. Lestrade looked up from another round of irritable walk checking and squinted at Watson's face, and Watson was rather glad that he had his large bag and it was strategically placed.
"Yes, Doctor, you look right peaky," Lestrade said.
"And if our dear inspector notices it, it must be quite the illness. Well, you don't need us anymore, really, do you? I've already told you what to look for and who the guilty party is -- we don't want Watson getting sick, now do we?" Holmes said briskly, already clapping Lestrade heartily on the shoulder. "Good man. Do call on us if you have any further questions."
At the very least, it was gratifying to see that Holmes was infected with the same sort of urgency he had given Watson.
"I am feeling as if I am getting ill," Watson finally said, weakly and it seemed, completely unnecessarily. Holmes was already walking away and Watson had to walk quickly to catch up with him.
He hailed a cab, and as they were climbing in, Watson leaned forward and growled at him, "You are most frustrating man in the Empire, Holmes, and pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo."
He was close enough to hear the slight hitch in Holmes's breath as he settled across the hansom and Watson smiled, "But I will admit, you occasionally have capital ideas."
The drive back to their rooms was a quiet one, tense with unspoken and unspeakable things. Holmes got out of the cab first and left Watson to pay the driver, opening the door and striding up the stairs without looking back once. Watson followed, more sedately, and told Mrs. Hudson that Holmes was in quite the mood and it was best if they weren't disturbed.
He was pleased when she, of her own initiative, decided to leave the house. He walked the last few steps up to their apartments slowly, opening the door and locking it behind him. It was dark, all the curtains were drawn, and the fire and gas-lamps only gave the room enough light to see the shape of things and not their details. Holmes was sitting in his armchair, packing the bowl of his little clay pipe, very carefully not looking up at him. So he was going to make Watson work for it, then. Watson smiled walked toward Holmes, kneeling in front of him and starting to unbutton his waistcoat.
"I once spoke to a classics professor who, in the strictest confidence, told me the most fascinating theories about some of Catullus's poetry," Watson said, forcing his voice smooth and light, even as he manhandled Holmes out of the waistcoat and then the shirt. "Apparently, some of the love poems were written toward men."
He took the pipe out of Sherlock's hand and set it down on the table. Holmes didn't object, he just raised an eyebrow and allowed himself to be stripped, lifting his hips so that Watson could ease his trousers down, pliant.
"Indeed? Your professor was quite liberal," Holmes said, and Watson counted the small strain in his voice as success.
"Liberal, yes, and about a bottle of wine into the evening. After three, he was insisting the same about some of Shakespeare's sonnets," Watson said, leaning close and placing a closed mouth kiss against Holmes's stomach, enjoying the feel of hard muscle trembling, the smell of musk, and the small noise that Holmes couldn't help but make as Watson ever so gently brushed against his already hard cock.
"I'm not sure I believe the good professor about Shakespeare," Watson continued, moving back and studying Holmes, making no move to undress himself and just enjoying the view. "Although, who really knows? Regardless, I have no doubt about Catullus. After all, it was him who wrote--" and here, he paused trusting that Holmes could figure out where he was going and could therefore expect it. Watson leaned forward, touching Holmes only very lightly, and said oh-so-quietly into Holmes's ear, "pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo."
Holmes breathed audibly and then said, his voice still only edged with strain, "You make such promises and yet nothing. I suspect you may be all talk, old boy."
Watson leaned forward and smiled, kissing his neck and nibbling there, sucking and drawing blood to the surface. From this position, he could feel Holmes's heart quicken. And then Watson pulled away, standing up and bringing Holmes with him, gripping the other man perhaps a bit harshly on the shoulder.
He didn't bother to ask -- instead, he just directed Holmes into the position he wanted, turning him around and pressing him over the arm of the chair, one of his legs going in between Holmes's, to nudge them further apart. He stroked down Holmes's back with one hand, as the other undid own trousers to relieve some of the pressure.
"Don't move," Watson said.
Before he could go anywhere, Holmes spoke, "If you are intending to retrieve lubricant, Watson, perhaps you should check first. I would hate for you to be inefficient."
A bolt of lust shot straight down Watson's legs at that, and he bit back a groan. His hand slipped down to check, as Holmes suggested, and he was already slick. Watson had a sudden visual flash of Holmes alone in his room, his hands dripping with slickness and his knees pulled up by his ears, eyes fluttering shut as he did this wanton, vulgar thing. He walked out into the world, went on a case -- all while he was ready, willing, and intending to be right here in front of Watson. And here this man was, vowels as crisp as ever, sounding to most people like he was taking tea with his mother, bent down over his famous arm-chair and about to get buggered.
Watson could barely take the thought of it, and it was standing in front of him. Not wasting any more time, he used one hand to guide himself into Holmes and the other to hold the man's hips. He eased the head in, and it was tight -- Holmes must have prepared himself a few hours ago, because it was almost too tight, too much, but Watson clutched at Holmes and thrust in a hard burst, jerking Holmes's entire body and causing him to cry out, almost if the sound was pushed from him.
And then he did it again, forcing Holmes's hands out in front of him, supporting himself on the opposite arm of the chair. He fucked Holmes quickly and hard, his brisk strokes belied by the hand which couldn't help but rub patterns into the small of Holmes's back, by his eyes which couldn't help but follow the flickering of the fireplace against his skin. But Holmes loved this, loved the hardness of it -- he could see the sweat curling the hair at the back of his neck, the way his neck gave out and let his head hang loose, the movement of his chest as he struggled for breath. Holmes liked sensations like this, hard and fast and impossible to ignore, things he could focus on to the exclusion of everything else. Watson knew all this, and loved to watch him lose himself in his personal contemplation of pleasure, love to be the agent that allowed Holmes to simply respond.
And so, pedat, he fucked him, his close rubbing small redness into Holmes's skin, his shirt and waistcoat damp with his own sweat. And suddenly, with a noise like surprise, Holmes came, his body clenching around Watson and his arms giving out. He collapsed into the armchair, face pressed against the fabric and it was one, two and Watson was coming.
Watson sat heavily on the floor, his breath coming quickly, and then pulled Holmes down on top of him. It was moments like these he really appreciated the few extra inches he was granted and he took advantage of them, curling his body around the other man. Holmes's eyes were still closed and Watson shifted him in his lap so that they were both comfortable, moving slightly so that Watson was leaning against the other chair. Holmes didn't open his eyes, but pressed a kiss to the underside of Watson's jaw. Watson guessed he was hiding his smile.
A few more seconds with them just breathing together, and then Watson spoke, "I hope that you have some chemical experiment that will clean off your mess."
Holmes opened his eyes and then bit the underside of Watson's jaw, startling a laugh out of him. "I rather think that you contributed to that, in your way."
Watson ran his knuckles across Holmes's belly and made a noise, but did not disagree. After another long moment of silence, right when Watson was considering whether or not it would be wiser to move, Holmes said:
"My word, Watson -- I thought you were a man who kept his promises. We haven't yet got to irrumabo."
And then Watson laughed, almost helplessly, and fell in love again and again and again.
Carmen 7
Quaeris, quot mihi basiationes
tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque.
quam magnus numerus Libyssae harenae
lasarpiciferis iacet Cyrenis
oraclum Iovis inter aestuosi
et Batti veteris sacrum sepulcrum;
aut quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox,
furtivos hominum vident amores:
tam te basia multa basiare
vesano satis et super Catullo est,
quae nec pernumerare curiosi
possint nec mala fascinare lingua.
You ask, my Lesbia, how many of your kisses
are enough and more than enough for me.
As many as there are Libyan grains of sand,
laying at silphium-scented Cyrene,
between the oracle of debauched Jove,
and the sacred tomb of old Battus.
Or, as many as the stars that see the secret loves of man,
when all the night is silent.
So many kisses are enough,
and more than enough,
for mad Catullus to kiss you -- these kisses
which the curious cannot count
and evil cannot taint.
Watson woke to the smell of burning paper and opened his eyes to see Holmes's little note in the man's hands, being incinerated by a match. Holmes was still naked and Watson allowed himself the pleasure of watching, until Holmes climbed back into bed and kissed him until his eyes closed once more.
amo, amas, amat, Holmes/Watson, NC-17, 4300 words, Catullus spoke his heart and there was no avoiding him if he was to feel at all.
Carmen One
Quare habe tibi quidquid hoc libelli-
qualecumque, quod, o patrona virgo,
plus uno maneat perenne saeclo!
Therefore, have this little scroll,
whatever it is -- oh patron maiden,
let it be everlasting, let it be for the ages
Watson was never able to get the hang of modern languages, and was almost surprised that Holmes could, if he could still be surprised by anything his dearest friend could manage. He had this vague impression of languages as a womanish skill, something for poets and finishing school girls, or at best, diplomats. Most of the good science was happening in England, after all, and he had really gained his fill of traveling. And the romance languages were so illogical -- they frustrated him, and he was no Holmes.
But the dead languages of antiquity, ah. Those were a different story. As a school boy, he had loved his Latin and his Greek, relishing in just how much sense they made, how orderly they were. Unlike French, with its perplexing pronunciation and inconsistent plurals, Latin was predictable and there was no need to make his tongue bend around confusing syllables. He had adored his conjugations and declensions enough that not even Cicero's longest sentence could deter him, and he had been easily first in his class right up till university.
And like all fine students of Latin, he remembered feeling deliciously naughty when he first found a copy of the complete Catullus, moving beyond simple sparrows (which became much more interesting, in retrospect), to far more explicit poetry. He remembered reading it, hunched over like he was hiding something, his face feeling hot as he flipped through the dictionary. Some of the words were so foul that the editor did not even list them, but many generations of school boys before him had helpfully written in the margins, spidery pencil outlining filth.
pedo, pedare, pedavi, pedatus: (v) to bugger, one wrote, and Watson felt a lick of delicious scandal run down his spine.
But then the book slipped deeper into his soul, and he found himself moving past the prurient joy at finding something naughty, and finding the lepidus libellus had more to offer than he previously suspected, a resonance that made him realize quite viscerally why people have been reading mad Catullus for thousands of years. He had brought the book to Afghanistan, the same copy sitting on his shelf at Baker Street, and it had been his companion through loves and loss.
The cover still felt like sand, a little, and he could almost smell gunpowder when he opened it. One would think such associations would deter him, but at this point, Catullus spoke his heart and there was no avoiding him if he was to feel at all.
But such thoughts and such devotion were sentimentality, and so it wasn't the least bit surprising when Holmes stopped (as he, in his usual manner, perused casually through Watson's things) and lifted the small volume in his long fingers, his face amused.
"Love poetry, Watson?" he said. "I would ask if you have a new female with which you are engaging in a spot of wooing, but this book is clearly older than that--" he brought it to his nose, and sniffed it "--indeed, I suspect you took it to the wars."
Watson felt annoyed at the intrusion, even as he was pleased that it wasn't only his imagination and some of the stench of the desert still lingered in those pages.
"You were the boy that only read Seneca, weren't you?" Watson said, moving to snatch the book out of Holmes hands. In retrospect, that was likely a mistake -- the action only brought an impish tinge to Holmes's smile.
"Both Older and Younger, yes, but I also quite liked Cicero. And you were the boy who swooned over Ovid, did you not?" Holmes said, following Watson as he made his way back to his armchair and smiling down at him as Watson sat down, the book on his lap. Watson took a very dignified sip of his tea.
"There was no swooning involved. I had a very healthy respect for the man's command of poetry, yes. And your denial of such beauty continues to demonstrate that you have absolutely no understanding of the written arts," Watson said.
Holmes waved his hand, as if to swat away the accusation. "Literature is not typically useful for detective work, and if it ever happens to be, that would be why I have you. Indeed, you can cover Latin entirely. I never saw the point in learning a language no one speaks."
"The Catholics speak it," Watson said, his voice still attempting peevish, but softened considerably by Holmes's admitting an element where he needed Watson.
"And a barrister would be proud of that technicality, Watson, I'm surprised that isn't Cicero. Now," Holmes said, sitting on the floor near Watson's feet, in what would be an unusual position for any other man. "Read your love poetry to me. If you insist on bringing such things into my home, you should persuade me why I wasted such time on the language in school."
And Watson did, reading his own translations (written in tiny script underneath every Latin text), until Holmes stood up suddenly and went to his violin. Watson fell quiet, the book settling closed once again, and Holmes played long into the night, his eyes closed and Watson strangely riveted, as if to search for the scansion of the notes.
Carmen 65
numquam ego te, vita frater amabilior,
aspiciam posthac? at certe semper amabo,
semper maesta tua carmina morte canam,
My brother, more beloved than life, will I never
look at you again? Certainly, I will always love you,
I will always sing for you, my songs saddened by your death.
And it was to Catullus that Watson turned, after Holmes tumbled over that cliff, Catullus who wrote elegy after elegy for his dead brother, yearning with a sorrow that Watson once again felt reflected in his own heart. For years, Watson felt almost as if he was adrift, as if there was something wrong with a world that Holmes was not in. After Mary died as well, there was nothing more in Watson to grieve, and he felt as if he ceased to exist entirely, as though with no intimate friends he had become unmoored from reality itself.
Then Holmes came back, and Watson took what felt like his first breath in years. And then he fainted dead away,sonitu suopte tintinant aures, geminal teguntur lumina nocte, his ears ringing with their own sound and his eyes enveloped by twin night.
He woke to the taste of brandy on his lips and Holmes's face filling his eyes, and the room felt sharp and new. He touched him, because he had too, and he felt the wings of sparrows beating in his heart and a lick of fire running under his skin, and he knew that he had perhaps more in common with the Greeks than he previously supposed.
It was a revelation as soul-shaking as Holmes's reappearance and he could not speak for a moment with the enormity of it, staring into Holmes's face for long moments in silence, until its expression of worry deepened.
"My dear Watson, are you alright?" Holmes said, and it was his voice.
"Ave" Watson said, his voice insubstantial, before clearing his throat and trying to sit up a bit. "Holmes, I thought you were dead."
Holmes did not move from his crouched position over Watson on the floor, even as Watson pulled himself upward. At this distance, Watson could smell him -- tobacco, resin, the reek of chemicals, and the smell of bitter almonds, a scent similar to cyanide which had always been Holmes to Watson.
"Yes, well, that was the intention," Holmes said. His eyes were locked on Watson, and he was pleased to see some of his same joy reflected there.
And then Watson processed what Holmes had just said, and punched him in the nose. Holmes fell back, shocked and already bleeding a bit.
Watson's voice raised, almost of its own accord, and he said, "You let me believe you were dead when you were not? You better have a bloody magnificent explanation for that."
Holmes was holding his handkerchief to his nose, but the pained look on his face was likely not due to that. "Watson, I'm not entirely sure any explanation will be sufficient. It seemed necessary at the time."
Watson stared at him in a twisting combination of awe at his return and awe at how irritating he could be. Catullus wasn't any help here -- he mourned his brother deeply and he likely would not have punched him had he returned from the dead. He also likely wouldn't have leaned forward and grabbed his brother's coat, yanking him forward into a kiss, but Watson grabbed Holmes.
It was a terrifying risk, taken almost without conscious thought, flush with the conflicting emotions of gratitude and frustration and consuming love.
Watson's world collapsed into only this when Holmes opened his mouth easily under the kiss, and Watson tasted need and blood and him.
Carmen 5
Vivamus mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
rumoresque senum severiorum
omnes unius aestimemus assis!
soles occidere et redire possunt:
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.
da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.
dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,
conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,
aut ne quis malus inuidere possit,
cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.
Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
let us judge the rumors of old men to be
worth nothing but a penny.
The suns are able to rise and to fall,
but when our light has fallen, we
must sleep for night neverending.
So give me a thousand kisses, and then a hundred
and then another thousand, and then a second hundred.
and another thousand still, another hundred --
then, when we have made so many thousands
we will mix them up so that not even we know how many
and no one will be able to be jealous when he finds out
just how many kisses we've shared.
Watson slipped so easily back into the old apartments it was like he never left, though there was more gray in Holmes's hair and he had a bit more trouble moving in the mornings. Mrs. Hudson, still not quite recovered from the shock of her life, seemed to even be pleased at their return.
And they took cases once more, and smoked shag tobacco in the sitting room, and Watson would bully Holmes into eating, or shaving, or not opening that morocco case, but now he had a different tool in his arsenal, and it fell easily within the rest.
Watson rubbed his cheek against Holmes's, kissing him on the fold of his eye, before tracing kisses down his nose.
"You need to shave," Watson said, kissing his cheekbone and feeling the stubble against his lips. Holmes cracked open one eye to look at him balefully and in the blissful stupor that Watson found himself in, he had to resist the urge to chuckle.
"Must you, really?" Holmes said. "It is a physiological fact that the human male likes a moment or two after orgasm simply to think of nothing, and you defy everything and initiate all sorts of conversations."
Despite the crispness of the words, Holmes's eyes were still fuzzy and soft, and Watson could feel Holmes's lips slipping, despite himself, into a smile, moving against Watson's cheek. Watson kissed him again, just for that. Holmes looked heavenward, as if in frustration.
"So, da mi basia mille, eh? Are we on the thousand, or the other hundred?" Holmes said, his voice dry. But his expression was warm, and when Watson stared at him in shock, it softened further.
"Was that the great rationalist Sherlock Holmes quoting love poetry? In Latin no less, which, if I remember correctly, is an entirely useless language?" he said, shock shifting to amusement and a sharp sort of pleasure. "I didn't even know you read Catullus."
Holmes tilted his head to kiss Watson, the arm which had been resting around Watson's waist slowly beginning to trace patterns on skin. "I came across a copy in my travels. It made a good penance for my sins, both large and small. Not to mention, it was a capital disguise all by itself."
It reminded me of you, Watson heard, and wondered how he ever thought this man cold. In a perverse sort of reward, and one he rather thought Catullus himself would approve of, he kissed Holmes again and began once more the long process of losing count.
Carmen 16
Vos, quod milia multa basiorum
legistis, male me marem putatis?
Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.
You, because you've read of my many
thousand kisses, you doubt my virility?
I'll bugger you, and then you'll blow me.
One of the most surprising things about this element of his relationship with Holmes was the man's sheer, wanton inventiveness. It probably should not have been -- Holmes had nothing if not a creative mind, and he was certainly never one to focus on all he had instead of what he could be doing. Watson had witnessed enough of Holmes's reaction to stagnation to realize, when he thought back on it all, that it only made good sense that Holmes brought his drive for experimentation into their bed. And sometimes, to be honest, out of it -- like now, when Holmes eased a piece of paper as easily as breathing into the pocket of Watson's waistcoat, in front of half of Scotland Yard, as they waited together for the villain to return home.
After the deed was done, Holmes fell out of sight, so Watson had nothing to glare at except the small piece of paper. It had the full text of Catullus 16 written on it, with all but the first and last lines crossed out. And underneath, in Holmes's distinctive script, there was written:
John,-- and already at this, there was a thrill --you have ruined me forever. I have never liked this language, but all I can think about now is you leaning into my ear and whispering this to me. Perhaps you would even say it louder, and I shall laugh as if you were quoting some witty epigram or look somber as if you were reminding me to virtue, but in reality, you were telling me filthy, perfect promises, which the author likely intended as a threat, but I will take in no such manner. Few people know Latin as well as you, so you could say this in public, in front of Lestrade, and only we will know what you intend. And I hope you fulfill these words, my dear John. It would be a horrible cruelty for you to place such blasphemy indelibly in my mind and then not have the decency to make it worth my while.
It was signed Holmes, because even in such an intimate and, it must be said, horribly illegal correspondence, the man still hated his first name. Watson read it again, and then had to put it away. He knew he was blushing, much as he had in his dormitory far too many years ago and Holmes, the bastard, looked at him and smirked.
"My, Watson, are you alright? You look flushed," Holmes said, his voice the perfect picture of fraternal concern. Lestrade looked up from another round of irritable walk checking and squinted at Watson's face, and Watson was rather glad that he had his large bag and it was strategically placed.
"Yes, Doctor, you look right peaky," Lestrade said.
"And if our dear inspector notices it, it must be quite the illness. Well, you don't need us anymore, really, do you? I've already told you what to look for and who the guilty party is -- we don't want Watson getting sick, now do we?" Holmes said briskly, already clapping Lestrade heartily on the shoulder. "Good man. Do call on us if you have any further questions."
At the very least, it was gratifying to see that Holmes was infected with the same sort of urgency he had given Watson.
"I am feeling as if I am getting ill," Watson finally said, weakly and it seemed, completely unnecessarily. Holmes was already walking away and Watson had to walk quickly to catch up with him.
He hailed a cab, and as they were climbing in, Watson leaned forward and growled at him, "You are most frustrating man in the Empire, Holmes, and pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo."
He was close enough to hear the slight hitch in Holmes's breath as he settled across the hansom and Watson smiled, "But I will admit, you occasionally have capital ideas."
The drive back to their rooms was a quiet one, tense with unspoken and unspeakable things. Holmes got out of the cab first and left Watson to pay the driver, opening the door and striding up the stairs without looking back once. Watson followed, more sedately, and told Mrs. Hudson that Holmes was in quite the mood and it was best if they weren't disturbed.
He was pleased when she, of her own initiative, decided to leave the house. He walked the last few steps up to their apartments slowly, opening the door and locking it behind him. It was dark, all the curtains were drawn, and the fire and gas-lamps only gave the room enough light to see the shape of things and not their details. Holmes was sitting in his armchair, packing the bowl of his little clay pipe, very carefully not looking up at him. So he was going to make Watson work for it, then. Watson smiled walked toward Holmes, kneeling in front of him and starting to unbutton his waistcoat.
"I once spoke to a classics professor who, in the strictest confidence, told me the most fascinating theories about some of Catullus's poetry," Watson said, forcing his voice smooth and light, even as he manhandled Holmes out of the waistcoat and then the shirt. "Apparently, some of the love poems were written toward men."
He took the pipe out of Sherlock's hand and set it down on the table. Holmes didn't object, he just raised an eyebrow and allowed himself to be stripped, lifting his hips so that Watson could ease his trousers down, pliant.
"Indeed? Your professor was quite liberal," Holmes said, and Watson counted the small strain in his voice as success.
"Liberal, yes, and about a bottle of wine into the evening. After three, he was insisting the same about some of Shakespeare's sonnets," Watson said, leaning close and placing a closed mouth kiss against Holmes's stomach, enjoying the feel of hard muscle trembling, the smell of musk, and the small noise that Holmes couldn't help but make as Watson ever so gently brushed against his already hard cock.
"I'm not sure I believe the good professor about Shakespeare," Watson continued, moving back and studying Holmes, making no move to undress himself and just enjoying the view. "Although, who really knows? Regardless, I have no doubt about Catullus. After all, it was him who wrote--" and here, he paused trusting that Holmes could figure out where he was going and could therefore expect it. Watson leaned forward, touching Holmes only very lightly, and said oh-so-quietly into Holmes's ear, "pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo."
Holmes breathed audibly and then said, his voice still only edged with strain, "You make such promises and yet nothing. I suspect you may be all talk, old boy."
Watson leaned forward and smiled, kissing his neck and nibbling there, sucking and drawing blood to the surface. From this position, he could feel Holmes's heart quicken. And then Watson pulled away, standing up and bringing Holmes with him, gripping the other man perhaps a bit harshly on the shoulder.
He didn't bother to ask -- instead, he just directed Holmes into the position he wanted, turning him around and pressing him over the arm of the chair, one of his legs going in between Holmes's, to nudge them further apart. He stroked down Holmes's back with one hand, as the other undid own trousers to relieve some of the pressure.
"Don't move," Watson said.
Before he could go anywhere, Holmes spoke, "If you are intending to retrieve lubricant, Watson, perhaps you should check first. I would hate for you to be inefficient."
A bolt of lust shot straight down Watson's legs at that, and he bit back a groan. His hand slipped down to check, as Holmes suggested, and he was already slick. Watson had a sudden visual flash of Holmes alone in his room, his hands dripping with slickness and his knees pulled up by his ears, eyes fluttering shut as he did this wanton, vulgar thing. He walked out into the world, went on a case -- all while he was ready, willing, and intending to be right here in front of Watson. And here this man was, vowels as crisp as ever, sounding to most people like he was taking tea with his mother, bent down over his famous arm-chair and about to get buggered.
Watson could barely take the thought of it, and it was standing in front of him. Not wasting any more time, he used one hand to guide himself into Holmes and the other to hold the man's hips. He eased the head in, and it was tight -- Holmes must have prepared himself a few hours ago, because it was almost too tight, too much, but Watson clutched at Holmes and thrust in a hard burst, jerking Holmes's entire body and causing him to cry out, almost if the sound was pushed from him.
And then he did it again, forcing Holmes's hands out in front of him, supporting himself on the opposite arm of the chair. He fucked Holmes quickly and hard, his brisk strokes belied by the hand which couldn't help but rub patterns into the small of Holmes's back, by his eyes which couldn't help but follow the flickering of the fireplace against his skin. But Holmes loved this, loved the hardness of it -- he could see the sweat curling the hair at the back of his neck, the way his neck gave out and let his head hang loose, the movement of his chest as he struggled for breath. Holmes liked sensations like this, hard and fast and impossible to ignore, things he could focus on to the exclusion of everything else. Watson knew all this, and loved to watch him lose himself in his personal contemplation of pleasure, love to be the agent that allowed Holmes to simply respond.
And so, pedat, he fucked him, his close rubbing small redness into Holmes's skin, his shirt and waistcoat damp with his own sweat. And suddenly, with a noise like surprise, Holmes came, his body clenching around Watson and his arms giving out. He collapsed into the armchair, face pressed against the fabric and it was one, two and Watson was coming.
Watson sat heavily on the floor, his breath coming quickly, and then pulled Holmes down on top of him. It was moments like these he really appreciated the few extra inches he was granted and he took advantage of them, curling his body around the other man. Holmes's eyes were still closed and Watson shifted him in his lap so that they were both comfortable, moving slightly so that Watson was leaning against the other chair. Holmes didn't open his eyes, but pressed a kiss to the underside of Watson's jaw. Watson guessed he was hiding his smile.
A few more seconds with them just breathing together, and then Watson spoke, "I hope that you have some chemical experiment that will clean off your mess."
Holmes opened his eyes and then bit the underside of Watson's jaw, startling a laugh out of him. "I rather think that you contributed to that, in your way."
Watson ran his knuckles across Holmes's belly and made a noise, but did not disagree. After another long moment of silence, right when Watson was considering whether or not it would be wiser to move, Holmes said:
"My word, Watson -- I thought you were a man who kept his promises. We haven't yet got to irrumabo."
And then Watson laughed, almost helplessly, and fell in love again and again and again.
Carmen 7
Quaeris, quot mihi basiationes
tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque.
quam magnus numerus Libyssae harenae
lasarpiciferis iacet Cyrenis
oraclum Iovis inter aestuosi
et Batti veteris sacrum sepulcrum;
aut quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox,
furtivos hominum vident amores:
tam te basia multa basiare
vesano satis et super Catullo est,
quae nec pernumerare curiosi
possint nec mala fascinare lingua.
You ask, my Lesbia, how many of your kisses
are enough and more than enough for me.
As many as there are Libyan grains of sand,
laying at silphium-scented Cyrene,
between the oracle of debauched Jove,
and the sacred tomb of old Battus.
Or, as many as the stars that see the secret loves of man,
when all the night is silent.
So many kisses are enough,
and more than enough,
for mad Catullus to kiss you -- these kisses
which the curious cannot count
and evil cannot taint.
Watson woke to the smell of burning paper and opened his eyes to see Holmes's little note in the man's hands, being incinerated by a match. Holmes was still naked and Watson allowed himself the pleasure of watching, until Holmes climbed back into bed and kissed him until his eyes closed once more.