Chapter Text
da mihi basia mille
There were nights when they would lie together, in the dark, and simply kiss. Short kisses behind ears and over eyebrows, tracing over cheekbones. Playful nips at swollen lips and along jaws. Long, deep, slow kisses in which tongues would explore mouths and the only sound would be the quiet whoosh of life—air inhaled and exhaled.
So many kisses, all over, and of every kind and yet each was unique. There were so many variables to consider—the temperature of the room, emotion, the amount of endorphins or adrenaline, the pressure of lips and teeth and tongue, and where the kisses were placed. Sherlock thought he could spend forever kissing—make a lifelong study of it—and never experience the same kiss twice.
There had been so many kisses between them—a thousand, a million, and more—though this one, this one he would always remember.
Sherlock leaned down, fingers brushing light strokes over cheekbones he’d memorised with his lips in the dark, over furrows in skin he knew by taste. His nose nudged another as he’d done so many times—too many to count—and his lips touched John’s. Soft, sweet, sad.
He remembered a poem from when he was at school, forced to learn Latin. And his lips, still pressed gently against John’s, mouthed dein, cum milia multa fecerimus, conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus, aut ne quis malus invidere possit, cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.
He pulled away, his lips longing to linger where they so often had before. He stood and watched, stone-faced, as the bag John was in was zipped up and whisked away to the morgue.
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.