With that sort of poetry, Watson felt he had no choice but to close that small distance and kiss Holmes, his eyes closed. The gesture was deep and lingering, gently exploratory, more tender than lustful. He smoothed his hand over Holmes's chin.

When he drew back, he let his hand wander to stroke through Holmes's hair. He rested their foreheads together. "No one," he confirmed, smiling, "has told me that I have a face that inspires poetry. Thank you, even if I doubt it." He kissed Holmes again, carefully. "I knew a girl once who wrote me poetry. Terrible stuff. I'd rather have you quote Shelley in a heartbeat. You perform beautifully."

He shut his eyes again, and began to recite something he had learned long ago, his voice soft. It lacked the practiced sense of performance Holmes seemed to grasp so effortlessly; it was, too, in its own way, a small apology for having caused Holmes any pain.

"My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a bargain better driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.
His heart his wound receivèd from my sight;
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me on him his hurt did light,
So still methought in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,
My true love hath my heart and I have his."