After spending "half an hour of profitable amusement" in the sitting-room, they left Baker Street again. Holmes accompanied Watson back to his Kensington practice to pack an overnight bag for himself, that he might accept Holmes's invitation to stay the night in their old rooms.

Reaching his door, Watson smiled and wondered over this miraculous day still--how suddenly and amazingly Holmes had returned to his life and how quickly and easily they had fallen into their old patterns again. It was delightful to have adventures and companionship after the long three years without Holmes, and after his sad bereavement.

More delightful still was the quiet manner in which Holmes now tentatively suggested that Watson take a brief holiday from his practice to spend a few days with him. "--If you could afford leaving things with your neighbour for the time?"

Watson smiled at the unspoken affection in this request, so much like the old days, and from so unsentimental a man as Holmes. Watson merely nodded and readily stopped in at his study to write a note to leave for his neighbour.

Holmes meanwhile observed that the old bibliophile's disguise still remained on the table. "My dear Watson," he remarked, "I have left my clutter lying about your study!" He gathered up the books and white wig. "Allow me to take them away." He paused and turned, "That is, if you do not want to keep any of these books?"

Watson looked up from the desk. "Hmm? Oh! Well ... what are they?"

Holmes smiled. "The best homecoming presents that I could obtain on my way back to England! I pray that I chose works of sufficient literary merit for you, my dear friend and man of letters."

"I had not imagined that these were more than simply your disguise!"

"Quite an outré assortment," Holmes laughed. "I believe that I already offered you British Birds, The Holy War, and Catullus." He passed the books over the desk as he spoke their titles, but on Catullus he especially paused, tapping the book with emphasis. "Now Catullus, my dear Watson, was especially good fortune on my part, to find so nice an edition with poems and biography. Don't you think so?" He opened the book and offered it to Watson to inspect. Holmes glanced up at the bookshelves behind him. "You'll be able to complete your collection of the old Roman masters."

"Why, Holmes, this is very thoughtful of you! I didn't think that you noticed my books at all." The pleased smile faded from Watson's face when he looked down again to the book in his hands. He cleared his throat delicately, "Although, I must say, there is a reason why I did not already have a Catullus in my collection."

Holmes frowned. "Oh? But my enquiries found that Catullus was among the most enduring of Roman poets."

"Oh indeed he is. A favorite with students."

"And he is witty?"

"Yes."

"And speaks to the romantic heart?"

"Yes," Watson blushed.

"Then what is wrong?"

"I--" He stopped, thinking a moment. Holmes had played practical jokes on him before. "Holmes, are you certain you're not aware of his reputation, and the content of his verses?"

"My dear Watson, I assure you, you are still the one with a far greater knowledge of classical literature. I have defied your 'Literature--nil' pronouncement in more modern languages. Please, inform me, what is so grossly erring in my choice?"

Watson shrugged. "To put it bluntly," he paused, coming round and sitting upon his desk beside Holmes. "Catullus is rather frowned upon nowadays because he's--lewd."

Holmes laughed outright. "My dear Watson, Shakespeare can be quite bawdy, and yet you do not blush to have him on your shelves."

Watson blushed again. "Well, more than just bawdy. If you knew the contents--" At Holmes's crossed arms and patiently amused look, he tried another tactic, turning back to the book and thumbing through its pages. "I'll show you, then. Besides being romantic, Catullus is alarmingly frank. Just see how explicit, and even homosexual, the verses are."

Holmes feigned a gasp, still chuckling.

"Here." Watson pointed out a poem.

Holmes shook his head. "Your command of literary Latin far exceeds my merely functional grasp of nomenclature."

"Very well. I'll translate."

"Whisper, lest your maid be awake and lurking about in earshot!" Holmes mocked.

Watson ignored him and mentally translated. As he opened his mouth to speak, though, he indeed could not bring himself to recite out loud, so he leaned near to Holmes and whispered in his ear.

Holmes's laughter subsided into serious attentiveness, and he only raised his eyebrow when Watson finished. "Is that a typical verse?" he asked quietly.

Watson handed him the book. "You choose, then."

Holmes turned the pages and did so.

So Watson again read Latin lines and intermittently whispered translations into Holmes's ear. Holmes sat with parted lips and crossed arms, absorbing this most dirty recital in silence.

In the midst, Holmes shifted, closing his eyes and murmuring, "If you're not careful, I might take that as an offer."

Watson promptly ceased and sat back, shutting the book. He frowned and slammed it on the desk, starting to rise. "Well, if you shall just mock me--"

Holmes caught him by the wrist. "No, I'm sorry, Watson," he protested. "Please."

Watson stood glaring.

He swallowed. "Forgive me. I had not meant to offend you."

Watson sat down again, grudgingly.

Holmes then shrugged casually again. "I concede that I have made a literary faux pas." He smiled suddenly, "In fact, not my only one today. Do you recall my quotation to Moran after his capture? 'Journeys end in lovers' meetings'?"

He nodded. "Twelfth Night?"

"Yes. Have you a copy handy?"

Watson retrieved the Shakespeare play off of his bookshelf and handed it to Holmes.

"Thank you." He laid the book on the desk between them and began turning the pages. "At the time I had supposed that I quoted the Fool's making fun of two drunken knights habitually congregating to the same places. However, my better-considered memory tells me that there is no such song; that in fact--" His finger halted on the located place. "Ah, indeed, a love song! Hardly appropriate for quoting to Moran, even in jest. Don't you agree, Watson? Listen."

Holmes spoke the song softly as Watson leaned closer over the book, which lay upside-down to him. "Oh mistress mine, where are you roaming?"

Watson tittered already at the line.

Holmes pressed a finger to Watson's lips, shushing and glancing at him to hear him out. He continued, "O stay and hear; your true love's coming,/That can sing," he paused, "both high and low."

Watson did not apparently notice the sliding of Holmes's hand across the desk and onto his own hand.

Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

Nor did Watson object to meeting Holmes's often-raised eyes.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter.
What's to come is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty.
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

The silence after this recital was abruptly broken by Watson's laughter, rather loud. He shook with his amusement. "A good thing Moran didn't have the text in hand!" He rose from the desk, still chuckling. "You do have a fine voice for Shakespeare, though, and it's still true about what the stage lost." He went to the door and paused. "I'll go pack my things and tell my maid I'll be gone. Help yourself to some brandy, Holmes." He left and went upstairs.

Still sitting upon the desk, Holmes shut the book and shoved it aside forcefully. He did the same with the Catullus and groaned, closing his eyes. He shook his head. "And I came back for this?"

Three years of Mycroft's nagging letters came back to him, beginning with, "Posh! Moran is hardly convinced of your death by seeing you escape. It is not the criminal underworld you wish to be dead to." Moving on from deduction to meddling, Mycroft further wrote, "I have observed him--his manner, his grief, his utter distraction from his wife. There is a distinct possibility. Can you live without ever returning to test that possibility?"

Holmes sighed slowly and picked up the books again. He finally managed to laugh, saying softly, "Good old unobservant Watson." He shook his head. It was only the first night of his return, as yet.

He poured himself a drink, singing quietly, "Come kiss me, sweet..."