Warning: Contains non-graphic suggestion of r*** NOT committed by or against any established characters; readers, please use your own discretion.

Not graphic: rated for safety.

Also, sad. Slightly AU

It was the same tired old argument as always, except this time they were slightly drunk. Holmes was draped over the sofa, one hand holding a glass of brandy on his chest and his other hand lying on the floor. His head was propped on a pillow and he was staring into the fireplace lazily. Watson was in his chair, his leg propped up and his book discarded on the side-table. He also had a glass of brandy in one hand and he contentedly watched the snow fall outside.

"I'm just saying," Watson drawled, his slight Scottish burr making itself known, "women are… soft."

"Soft?" Holmes replied with a snort. "If I want soft, I have this pillow right here. Or perhaps I could get a dog to curl up in my lap like I'm some old lady who has no other companion."

"Not just soft," Watson insisted. "Women are… irresistible, but in all the best of ways. And when you find the right one... it really is finding your so called 'better half.' It's like watching the night sky. I never get tired of it, or less fascinated. I always feel more alive, more complete. When Mary died, part of my soul died with her. I'll never be the same, and I don't want to be."

"Perhaps. But that is because you were her real husband. You know, in mind and body and till death do you part and all that other stuff people say at weddings to be romantic sappy. You loved her, is what I'm saying."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Watson demanded. "Of course I loved her! If I could have done anything to save her I would have."

"I meant nothing against you," Holmes assured him. "I'm thinking of myself. When my wife died, I didn't feel anything so powerful. But that's because I wasn't a good husband, I was just the man she married."

"What are you talking about?" Watson murmured. "You've never been married."

"Mmm-hmm," Holmes hummed. "I have."

"You're having me on," Watson murmured.

"No," Holmes assured him, but then giggled, smiling stupidly under the influence of the alcohol. "I've never said so because I knew you wouldn't believe me. Besides, I don't want anyone to think I'm a romantic."

"But how were you married while knowing nothing of love or romance? How did you get her to agree to have you? She must have been insanely in love."

"I did not need to know anything of love," Holmes replied, waving his free hand through the air as if that should have been obvious.

"Hmm?" Watson hummed, finally looking at his friend. "You're full of it," he accused.

Holmes craned his neck to look back at Watson steadily. "I am quite serious."

Suddenly, Watson felt very sober and Holmes swallowed hard, feeling strangely sober, too. He sat up, finished his brandy, looked into the fire again.

"It was... an arranged marriage, then?" Watson asked him hesitantly.

Holmes shook his head to the negative. "No, but close."

"A marriage of convenience, you mean?"

"Yes," Holmes affirmed.

"Who was she?" the doctor whispered.

"A family friend. Well, that's not quite true. She was my friend, actually. Perhaps the only one I had in my childhood. We saw each other often when my family was at home, and I liked her because she'd come with me on whatever scheme I had concocted most recently."

He paused, a small smile playing across his lips as he remembered. Watson was silent, and waited for him to continue.

"Then, I was ill for a long time," Holmes whispered finally, "and when I was strong enough to go out once more, we found that we were suddenly a young man and a young woman respectively and that romping through the woods together all day was no longer quite appropriate."

"I did not know you were ill as a child," Watson said.

"Oh, yes," Holmes said with a shrug. "It's not noticeable because I recovered completely and had no lingering effects on my mobility or habits. Except, of course, my tendency not to eat or sleep for days on end, but that is mostly by choice. It was during those long months while I lingered not quite well that I gained some of the knowledge that has been invaluable to me during cases, everything from the practices of various African tribes to the various kinds of poisonous plants. I read any and every textbook I could get my hands on."

Watson finished his drink, too. He didn't want to push Holmes for more information, but he was insanely curious. What Holmes had already said was more than Watson thought he'd ever get about his friend's past, and he committed it to memory. Thankfully, he didn't need to ask, for Holmes continued on his own.

"When I came home from preparatory school, I was quite the strapping young man, if it's not immodest to say so. As I said, I recovered physically from my illness and had learned boxing and fencing and acting. On top of that, I was well-read and set for university. Meanwhile, Violet's father had made several good investments and had become wealthy. Naturally, she had many admirers. She would have attracted many young men in any event, for she was beautiful and good natured and from a respectable family and no one who knew her didn't like her. But, when there was suddenly a large inheritance on the line, those admirers doubled, and not for the better."

Violet. So that was her name, and Watson filed it away in his memory. How, with so many admirers, had she ended up with Holmes?

"The man who won her hand was not the man who she chose, but rather the man her father chose for her. And he was a rogue."

Holmes' face twisted in disgust, and Watson knew he meant it.

"She came to me," Holmes continued softly. "I knew something was wrong, for there were bruises on her arms and wrists. She begged me to help her fly and escape her fiance. Her father was blinded by his charm and his family's land and refused to hear her say a word against him. But Russel was horrid to her, and beat her when they were alone and made advances to forcibly steal her virtue before their marriage."

Watson cringed, but Holmes wasn't looking at him.

"Today, I could have done it," he said. "Today, I could have made her disappear. But back then I was young and inexperienced and didn't know how. I was conflicted; I didn't know what to do. The only thing I knew for certain was I couldn't leave her to that brute. So, I married her."

"To save her from him," Watson said.

"Yes," Holmes confirmed. "I was a strong-willed young man. I was not intimidated by him, not by any of them. I soon proved that I could not be persuaded into annulling our union by the threats and bribes they tried, damn them. I didn't care for the repercussions."

"The repercussions?" Watson asked.

"She and I were both exiled and disowned by our respective fathers," Holmes replied flippantly. "We were left homeless and penniless and so moved in with my brother Mycroft, who had not disowned me, until we could afford to live on our own. Mycroft, thankfully, did not care one whit about who I married or when or why. Violet and I planned to live separately when we could afford it and be husband and wife legally only, as I did not love her and she did not require a true husband."

"You granted her a divorce?" Watson questioned.

"I would have had she wanted one," Holmes replied. "But as I said, she did not. The terrible experience with that man made her lose all interest in marrying anyone besides myself. The very idea of being at a man like that's mercy every day for the rest of her life made her tremble, and so having me to protect her from unwanted attention worked well for us both."

"But surely something happened," Watson pressed. "You're not still married?"

"No," Holmes said, flicking his eyes toward Watson sadly. "When her fiance beat her in the days before I was able to steal her away, he… he hurt her very badly. I wasn't there, and I couldn't stop it, but I wish to God I had been. Even now, even after solving so many cases and bringing so many killers to justice, if I could, I would go back to that damned village and face that damned man all over again! I would stop him one way or another whether it cost me life or liberty!"

Watson watched Holmes with wide eyes, watched as the snarl on his friend's face very slowly softened, watched as Holmes took several shuddering breaths and his red face regained its color.

"I tried to take care of her," he finally whispered, "but she wasn't well. The damage he had done lingered on despite what the doctor's tried. Her health only worsened the longer she was with child."

Watson choked. "You… you have a child?"

"It was not my child, I'm afraid," Holmes replied softly. "One of… his attacks, was successful." Suddenly, Holmes looked small and defeated.

"Oh. I'm so sorry..."

"I know I said I didn't love her, but that's not quite true. She was… a friend. And believe it or not, I would have done my duty by her as her husband and consummated our marriage had it been necessary. But, as it happened, after what he'd done to her she despised being touched by any man. She didn't mind my touch as much, but we never did anything more than hold each other. And yes, she was… soft. But she didn't last long, she died during labor. He had killed her with his cruelty. My wife."

Watson was silent, digesting this news.

"There was nothing to be done to see him sentenced by the law," Holmes continued. "I would have done my duty and avenged her, but she was a good Christian woman who believed the Lord would take His own vengeance on the wicked in His own time, and I would have been disrespecting her memory to have taken revenge myself. And I was young, and I didn't know what else to do, so instead, I… nudged things along for the good Lord as best I could. By then, you see, that brute had fallen out with his potential father-in-law. I was able to convince her father through some of her letters that Russel was a brute. It was her father that killed him, and then he killed himself. He 'let the Good Lord judge between them,' as he wrote in a letter found after his death. It is not too much, I think, to assume that he blamed himself for Violet's fate. As well he should have, as his blindness was very much a part of it. I hope they are both rotting in hell."

"My God," Watson murmured, his hand shaking slightly. "My God..."

"My son lived a few short weeks after her death," Holmes continued softly. It was as if now that he was finally saying this it was all coming out. "He was too small and weak and soon passed. His lungs were underdeveloped, the doctor said. He is buried near his mother, both of them under the Holmes name, my name. I know Sherlock the second wasn't really my son, but I would have kept him and raised him as mine and loved him. I did love him in my own way, though it was a strange feeling, knowing my son was soon to die."

"Why are you telling me this?" Watson whispered, his voice breaking.

"Because I know I can seem… unsympathetic at times, Watson. And I have not always been complimentary towards women or romance. But I… try to understand. My point, I guess, is that I've had… softness. If I wanted it again, I could have it. After all, I'm not exactly an ineligible bachelor. But marriage has meant nothing but pain for me and I see no point in pursuing it again. I do believe that had Violet… met a man like you, she might have seen that real love is possible, that a husband and wife can share an equal love. But as it was, she died bitter and destroyed. She died not believing in love."

Holmes snorted. "And I didn't, either. Believe in love, I mean. I kept waiting to…" he rubbed his face with his hands. "Dear God," he murmured, "Forgive me, my friend. But I honestly did keep waiting to hate you. I just knew that one day you'd come to visit and I'd deduce that you beat her. Mary, your wife. I was prepared to thrash you and banish you from my life for good. But then you didn't. You loved her."

"I'd never known a happy marriage before I saw yours, Watson. I didn't know it was possible! To me, every woman was either a weak-willed object of pity forced to endure beatings or a cold, calculating criminal ready to murder her husband whenever she got the chance. To me, every man was either a brute or an opportunist, using his wife for whatever he could get. I didn't know that when my father… Dear God, Watson, I didn't know!"

"Stop!" Watson cried desperately. "Stop, man, for God's sake! I can't hear any more!" He rose quickly, his head spinning from the drink. He crossed over to the couch and collapsed beside it. He took Holmes' hand, buried his face in the cushion, and sobbed.

Holmes grunted, sitting up enough that he could hoist Watson so they were sitting side by side.

"Sorry," Watson murmured. "Sorry." Over and over he murmured it, and his whole body was aching with his heartbreak.

Holmes said nothing, his thoughts long ago and far away. But he did reach one hand up, gently turning Watson's head into his shoulder to muffle his tears. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his mind and body exhausted, but before he could fall asleep he heard Watson say one more thing.

"You loved her, didn't you?" he murmured into Holmes shoulder.

"Yes," Holmes whispered. His own will was broken, and he could only speak the truth. "I think so. I loved her, and I couldn't save her." His chest heaved once and he clenched his teeth. With a great effort, he pushed his emotions away, and, totally drained, he slept.

When he woke well into midday, Watson was at the breakfast table, holding his head in one hand and pouring a cup of coffee with the other. "I'm getting too old to drink that much," he groaned when he saw Holmes was awake. "How are you holding up?"

Holmes' head was pounding, so he simply shrugged. He'd been worse, he supposed. Slowly, he joined Watson, and the doctor poured him a generous cup of coffee, murmuring the praises of Mrs. Hudson.

"I want tea," Holmes complained ungratefully.

"Too bad. You're drinking this first," Watson replied, sliding Holmes a large glass of water, "and then coffee. And eat your sausage first, then scones. That was my nan's cure for a hangover, and for the amount that woman drank? She can't be wrong."

"Watson…"

"We don't have to talk about it," Watson said softly, "But I need you to know just one thing. You loved her, and so whatever you think, when she died, she died believing in love."

Holmes sipped his water slowly, thinking about that. "Thank you, my friend, " he finally whispered. "Uh, what am I supposed to eat first?"

"Sausage," Watson replied. "And believe me, my nan fried it by the bucket load. And I never once saw her complain about the effects of the drink. Broke the Watson family records both for how much she could slosh down and for how long she could live. Mind you, the first one was harder than the second."

Holmes raised his glass of water. "Here's to our mothers and grandmothers," he murmured. "May they always be made of stronger stuff than we."

"I'll drink to that," Watson agreed, and they both finished their water.

They never did bring up Violet or Russel or their semi-drunken conversation again, but Watson never forgot the conversation they'd had, and they never did argue about it again with any kind of vehemence.

A very long time later, Watson visited a cemetery he'd never walked through before, wondering if he should have brought flowers. No one else, he thought, would have brought any for a very long time. He was not mad when he saw he was wrong.

Author's Note:

Partially inspired by Holmes' backstory in The Seven-Per-Cent Solution by Nicholas Meyer and partially inspired by Holmes' backstory in The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes Billy Wilder film.

Title taken from "I felt a funeral, in my Brain" by Emily Dickinson, the other inspiration for this story.

(Okay, so, I don't actually know where this came from, but the above three things probably had something to do with it. I take inspiration from everywhere and sometimes it ends up being lighthearted, sometimes darker like in this story).

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,

And Mourners to and fro

Kept treading - treading - till it seemed

That Sense was breaking through -

/

And when they all were seated,

A Service, like a Drum -

Kept beating - beating - till I thought

My mind was going numb -

/

And then I heard them lift a Box

And creak across my Soul

With those same Boots of Lead, again,

Then Space - began to toll,

/

As all the Heavens were a Bell,

And Being, but an Ear,

And I, and Silence, some strange Race,

Wrecked, solitary, here -

/

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,

And I dropped down, and down -

And hit a World, at every plunge,

And Finished knowing - then -