I often thought that Mr. Holmes was not nearly emotional enough, and, thus, I decided to delve into what, perhaps, could push him to that point. Of course, then my muse wouldn't let me rest. sigh Anyway, here it is, the whole, sad, angsty, definitely NOT SLASH thing... all for your sick enjoyment.

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, and Inspector Lestrade all belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own Athena Michaels, Amos Michaels, Violet (Holmes) Michaels, Godric Finnegan, and the unnanmed undertaker.

Est Quaedam Flere Voluptas

(There is in Weeping a Certain Pleasure)

I tell you now, this is one of the few times when you shall hear of me being in considerable enough distress where it is difficult to do much of anything, but I do not think my dear Watson will be telling you of this. Allow me to begin by giving you some of my backstory. Along with my elder brother, Mycroft, I had also a younger sister, Violet, three years my junior. It pains me to tell you that she passed away nearly thirteen years before the incident I will describe here occurred, leaving behind a three-year-old daughter and a husband, Athena and Amos Michaels. Most unfortunately, Amos Michaels was by no means a good father, leaving constantly for business and Athena remaining with a nanny. Amos also now has passed on, and Athena was quite alone. Thus, she came to live with myself and Dr. Watson at Baker Street.

Athena, due to this unfortunate situation with her father, had grown up to be quite stubborn and headstrong. However, she also possessed the acute powers of observation which bring so many people to my lodgings. There was, as well, the amazing ability of disguise. (She even cut her hair to her shoulders in order to make disguising herself as boy easier.) She was an intensely outspoken young woman, always voicing her thoughts whenever she felt it was needed. Watson remarked more than once that Athena was much like me in several aspects. He has told me that our eyes were exactly alike (a grey colour which would twinkle occasionally with excitement), a rather aquiline nose, and also the same long, thin fingers.

However, she was quite a dainty creature. Athena was no taller than five feet and weighed no more than 100 lbs. Whereas I typically forego food on a case, my niece ate almost constantly, and she always slept quite soundly. The one thing most people noticed first about my niece's appearance was the unique colour of her hair. It was very lovely. It seemed almost to change its colour in the light. Under normal conditions, her hair was a lovely, deep red, almost brown, but as soon she stepped out into the sunlight, more red became visible, changing hues non-stop. I asked Watson, for Athena's sake, to keep her name from his chronicles to be published, for I feared she may be harmed in order to get at me. Nevertheless, she was of great help to us in several of my more illustrious cases of my earlier chronicled adventures for nearly two years.

During one case which Watson has promised not to publish, her skills were more needed than ever. She was on the trail of a young man whom we believed to be the murderer six young women. For almost a week, she put on various disguises and left early in the morning, often not returning until late at night. She left on the final day she was needed, having just discarded a telegram for the seventh time bearing the initials 'G.F.' She claimed it to be a trifle and laughed as she walked out the door, pulling on her cap. I spent the morning with my chemicals, and with Watson later in the afternoon, when he came back from his rounds. We did not worry as dinner was brought up and she still had not made an appearance; it was not uncommon. However, it soon became one o'clock in the morning, and my niece was still not back. Watson saw my worry and attempted to placate my now worried, agitated mood, but I could not be calm. Watson tells me that my face was astonishing shade of white which I do not deny must have been startling. (I still hold to this day that Watson thought me completely unflappable. He denies it.)

"My dear fellow," said Watson an half an hour later, "please, calm down. Rest. You'll need all of your strength for this case. Worrying will do you no good."

I snapped at him, "How would you feel if it were your niece, Watson? You would be out of your head with worry. Do not lecture me!"

He fell silent. Some part of me felt remorse at hurting him so, but the rest of me could not be bothered with that emotion. I continued pacing as I had done for thirty-five minutes. After forty-five minutes, Watson went to bed. An hour later, two o'clock in the morning, there were two quick thumps outside the door: one at the door itself, one on the floor. I leapt over the couch in my haste to reach the door. I threw it open, perhaps to find Athena sleeping or panting or collapsed on the threshold. For a moment, I thought I was looking at a young man unconscious on the floor. Then, as I knelt beside him, I noted that the clothing was that of Athena's disguise. It was Athena that lay before me. I bellowed for Watson; he was at my side in an instant, still in his day clothes.

"My dear Holmes, what is the- good Lord! What happened?!" he exclaimed, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Go fetch the police, Watson! At once!"

Watson rushed off out the door as I scooped up my niece and brought her into our rooms. Her breathing was ragged but quiet as I laid her on the couch. Watson came hurrying back in a few minutes later, saying again, "Is there anything I can do?"

I paid him no heed, however, as I was more preoccupied with Athena's condition. I was becoming very much unlike my usual self… emotional, I suppose I could say. Her eyelids fluttered, and her lips parted ever so slightly. I leaned forward. Athena then put forth a most chilling tale which turned my heart to lead in my breast. Watson, who was observing from a distance, later told me that he could not hear what she said, but he knew it must have been most horrendous, for I went white as paper. I am quite reluctant to recount her words as it pains me merely to think about it. To spare myself, and perhaps yourself, unnecessary anguish, I shall merely state that she spoke of an uncommonly vicious assault which left her in her current condition. Her condition worsened throughout her tale. Despite my inherent lack of emotion, I found my hand clenched around hers so tightly I thought I might break her fingers. Athena's breathing was as ragged as it had ever been. Then, quite suddenly, it ceased. She went limp and cold; I could feel her skin chill under my fingers. There was a quick intake of breath behind me which sounded very much like, "Oh, God," and I felt Watson's hand upon my back. For once, I did not flinch away from another's touch. I found myself praying that it was all some nightmare I was experiencing, that I had perhaps fallen asleep in my chair and this dream was only some product of my troubled mind.

No, I thought, it is too real. A dream cannot be this real. The chilling of flesh, the deadness in her eyes… but it cannot be real.

I was quite unaware of the fact that I was still clutching her hand tightly. There was a knock at the door, and I snapped back to reality. I dropped her hand quite unceremoniously to appear as my usual unflappable self, especially to the police. I was rather surprised when Inspector Lestrade walked in.

"Bad business, eh, Holmes?" he sighed.

"Yes, Lestrade," I said as casually as possible, "I am afraid… it's my niece, Athena. She is… she is dead."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Holmes. I know you cared for-"

"Nevermind that now!" I snapped at him, "The only thing of importance now is finding her killer! You will be looking for a young man by the name of Godric Finnegan. He is about six feet tall, with dark hair and vivid blue eyes. He is of average build. I do not think he is very far away. Once you find him, bring him here. Thank you, Lestrade."

I moved to my armchair and sat down, putting my forehead in my hands. I heard Watson showing Lestrade and his officer out the door, then come over to stand beside me. I could tell by the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot that he did not relish saying what he felt he needed to say. After a few moments, he finally said, "Holmes, if you need to mourn, please don't keep it all bottled up. It's not healthy."

I remained silent for several more seconds, letting his words wash over me. He was right, of course. I could feel the grief clawing viciously at my heart, but I kept myself composed. The time for mourning was not then.

"Watson," said I, "I can assure you, the mourning will come. However, Athena's murderer must first be arrested. Then, we shall see."

He gazed at me with the most piteous look he had ever given me. I was glad for the knock at the door. Lestrade marched in with Mr. Finnegan. Finnegan appeared to be on the verge of tears as he looked upon me; he seemed terrified.

"Godric Finnegan," I said loudly and confidently, "you are afraid of me. Why?"

"I… I don't know."

"You fear me because you killed my niece!"

"No!" he shrieked, tears pouring from his eyes, "I swear I did not! I wouldn't have harmed a hair on her beautiful head! I loved her! I loved her with all I had in my soul! But-but she would not have me. I sent her telegrams on occasion, and once a day this week. But I didn't kill her! I swear to G-God!"

Finnegan began the most pitiable sobbing I had heard in my career. He was not lying. He indeed was in love with Athena.

"Do you know who did do it then?" I asked quietly.

Finnegan took several deep breaths before replying, "It… was Alec. He did it."

"Alec? Does he have a last name?"

Finnegan shrugged.

"Fine. Where is this 'Alec'? Can you get him for us?"

He seemed almost afraid for a second or two. Then, quite suddenly, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped off his chair to the ground. Watson rushed to his side.

"Don't touch me, you blithering fool! I don't need your help!"

Quite a different voice came from his tongue as he roughly pushed Watson away. We all stood around him, shocked. The young man before us could be none other than Alec, but he still looked like Godric. Watson and Lestrade seemed quite puzzled by this turn of events.

"So… Alec… why did you murder my niece?" I asked as calmly as I could, "Do you bear her some grudge?"

He shrugged. I could feel the room grow colder from his gaze as he said, "I thought I was doing my friend Godric a favour. This girl, Athena Michaels, had broken his fragile heart, and I wanted to make sure she paid for it. Poor Godric is not very strong, you see. Sometimes I need to help him do what needs to be done."

Alec then put in place the most thoroughly awful smirk, and the urge to strike him rose up within me; I quelled it quickly. Instead, for a rare moment, my emotions took over my thoughts.

"And raping and killing an innocent girl is a fair price for that?!" I shouted.

I heard Watson and Lestrade gasp behind me. My chest heaved as I took deep breaths in an effort to calm myself. Alec blinked at me as though I were an overly-emotional child. This only incensed me more. I bellowed for Lestrade to remove him from my sight at once. However, once I had uttered these words, Alec's eyes rolled back, and he slumped, becoming Godric once more. Godric was more terrified than ever.

"He did it, didn't he?!" he wailed hysterically, "He killed her!"

"Yes, he did," I was surprised at how quiet my reply was, "He killed her… and you will get the rope."

He had become very hysterical by now, and Lestrade and his officers were nearly carrying him out the door. I sighed and fell back in my armchair, inadvertently staring at the body of my beloved niece. Emotions I had not felt for many years welled up in my breast, and something pricked at my eyes. I could feel Watson's gaze boring a hole right through me. I knew he was deeply concerned for my well-being, but I vowed to myself in that moment I would not shed tears in front of him for as long as is humanly possible. I began to blink furiously in an attempt to stave off the tears which hung in my eyes about to fall like birds perched on limb about to take flight. (An odd simile, I know.) Of course while I was trying to make the tears go away, Watson preferred me to let them flow, and he did the one thing I had sorely wished he wouldn't do. He knelt in front of me, looking up into my face with his too-sympathetic eyes, and put his hands on my knees. He took a deep breath, saying, "Please…it will feel much better to cry than to keep it all locked up. It only leads to ruin, trust me. I've seen it happen. Just let it go… please… Holmes… Sherlock…"

Two tears leaked from my eyes and rolled down my cheeks when Watson used my given name; he had never done it before. (It was a courtesy I typically reserved for my elder brother, Mycroft.) I cursed myself for becoming so emotional as to shed tears in front of another man, even if he was my closest friend. Watson remained crouched in front of me, clutching my knees for several more seconds as new tears gathered in my eyes. He saw these tears there and apparently felt the urge to continue to see my human side. Thus, he reached up and took my hands in his own. I shut my eyes tightly against these new tears, but they fell anyway. Nevertheless, I kept my eyes squeezed shut, attempting to block all further emotions. Watson was still staring at me; I could feel it. I felt one of his hands leave mine, and the sound of him moving an ottoman reached my ears. My hand twitched when his left it; I am still not sure why that happened. However, his hand was soon back holding mine. Something about the way Watson was behaving struck a chord in my soul.

"Why… why are you being so kind to me, Watson?" I asked quietly, "I do not deserve it."

"No, Holmes, you do," he replied just as softly, "You do deserve it. You more than anyone. I have never seen you… like this. Your emotions are always hidden. I never know what to do around you because I am never sure of what you are feeling. Now, sad though it is, I know exactly how you feel. I… and I want to do all I can to help you. Please… let me."

His words struck my heart at its very core. Something rose up in my breast, something painful, something I had not felt since the death of my mother nearly 20 years ago… a sob. I felt my lower lip tremble and immediately raised my hand to my mouth to cover it, but Watson gently took it back in his own. His great amount of sympathy showed clearly in his too-emotional eyes, eyes that showed exactly what he felt. Even through tear-blurred vision, I could see unending pity in his face. I took a deep, shuddering breath to try and calm myself. Watson saw down to my pain, and he, too, took a breath which shuddered (though not nearly as much as my own). He began to stroke my hands gently with his thumbs, and I still am not sure if it was to prevent my inevitable weeping or facilitate it, but I, for no apparent reason, began bawling. I slumped forward into Watson's shoulder, sobbing so heavily that it began to hurt physically. Watson pulled his hands away from my own and put his arms around me; I tucked my hands up to my chest to keep them busy. I felt his hands on my back, clutching my coat tightly. (I thought he might tear it.) I gripped the front of his shirt without even realising I was doing it, the fabric straining under my fingers. Watson had put his head upon mine, and I could feel him crying along with me. Wet tears fell in my hair, his body trembled, his breath was uneven. My mind was reeling, stunned. Even when I had finished my weeping, I dared not move from my dear friend's arms. Everything seemed surreal, nightmarish; the only reassuring thing was being in Watson's arms.

"Sherlock!"

My head snapped up at once, and I broke away from Watson to see Mycroft standing in the doorway. He looked quite upset. I went to the door to greet him, embracing him. He pulled away, and I saw tears lingering in his eyes; he would not cry in front of anyone else, though. However, his knees nearly buckled at the sight of our dead niece, trying desperately to keep his tears back. He immediately suggested that we get an undertaker to Baker St. at once and left. Watson and myself were left in an uncomfortable silence. Watson was still gazing at me piteously. I noted his eyes were red and his face still shimmering with tears; I knew I looked no better. He stepped toward me, but I turned away to go to my rooms.

"Holmes, don't go," said he quietly, grabbing my forearm, "You can't run from this."

I wrenched my arm from his grasp, saying loudly, "I am not trying to run! I am trying to get some privacy! Your presence is not needed for my grieving!"

Watson looked most hurt by my statement. I saw tears spring to his eyes and felt somewhat sorry I had said it. Nonetheless, I turned again to go to my room. Again, Watson stopped me, this time by throwing his arms about my waist. It was quick, and Watson was gone in under three seconds, but I remained rooted to the spot. There was a knock at the door: Mycroft and the undertaker. Athena was finally removed.

"Sir?" the undertaker asked me, "Would you like her in some other clothes than these? My missus gets all the women ready… dresses 'n make-up 'n such."

I hurried off to her room and grabbed her favourite dress. It was a plain gown by the day's standards, save that it was a most brilliant shade of green unlike that which was typically worn. Even the undertaker thought it was lovely. Watson sidled out from his room to witness the removal of Athena's body, his eyes still glassy from tears. I slumped back into my chair, my hands over my face. I retired soon after, much too tired to think about anything other than sleep.

Athena's funeral was a few days later, in a small country Presbyterian church near where I was raised. There were not many people who attended, but we were grateful for those who did. Obviously, myself, Watson, and Mycroft were there, as well as a few family friends and some officers from Scotland Yard. I kept myself composed the whole way through, as did Watson and Mycroft. It was only after everyone had left, including Mycroft, that reality hit me once more. I do not remember my knees buckling or hitting the ground; I only recall sobbing on them beside her new grave. Watson knelt down beside me, also weeping (he had come to like her very much). I immediately threw my arms about his neck. I had never felt so sweet a release as this moment, sobbing in the arms of my dearest friend. Several minutes passed before I collected myself enough merely to stand. Another ten went by before Watson and myself began the walk back to the inn at which we were staying. I turned to look back at the grave site as we passed through the gates and was stunned. I tugged Watson's sleeve.

"Holmes, wha-"

His quick silence told me that he saw, too. In the middle of the cemetery, there was Athena, in that lovely, green gown, twirling and dancing and smiling. She waved to us, still smiling, and skipped off. Strangely, that put me completely at peace, and I left with Watson.

Well, there it is! Now tell me what you think! It's really easy... you just have to hit a little button... right here... (By the way... I did not mean to be rude when saying for your sick enjoyment. I just thought it was funny... chill.)