A/N: This is my first Holmes/Russell drabble but I've had it running in my mind the last few days. So here it is. I have a couple of other stories that I've got when it comes to Holmes fan fiction, all Russell universe b/c I adore Mary Russell. She's wonderful. Anyway, I don't own Miss Russell. I don't own Holmes either, but hey, he's not under copy write anymore, so ha! :)

I shuffled towards the bed, clinging tightly to the oversized jacket that Holmes had given me when the rain has started to pour outside. I shivered slightly and looked at my new husband and longtime friend as he lit his pipe, irritated with what was London weather. I forced back a smile as I pulled the covers up around myself, folding the jacket neatly up and placing it next to the tiny bed. "Out of the bolt-holes of yours that I've seen, Holmes, this one does seem to be the nicest. A fire, a bed, and space to move about… Quite nice, as bolt holes go."

Sherlock Holmes looked at me. "Perhaps not the nicest, but certainly livable."

"Yes, certainly. Will you sit there smoking that thing until the dead ends of the night."

He looked at me, his grey eyes sparkling with humour. "My dear Russell, surely you know that the night has no dead end."

"Yes, you could sit there until morning and never know the difference," I answered as I rolled my eyes back. "Come to bed, Holmes."

A small smile crossed his lips as he snuffed out his pipe and lay it down. "I suppose I should," he said at length. "Seeing as I will more than likely loose my new wife to her first love soon enough."

"First love?"

"Why, your studies, of course, Russ."

I snorted. "And as soon as a new case comes up, I'll loose my new husband to HIS first love."

"Ah, very true."

I shifted again, then my mouth moved before I gave it permission. "Tell me about your childhood, Holmes."

He blinked at me, startled. "Excuse me?"

I fumbled for a decent reply. Certainly he deserved a thorough answer, not skating around it. "You helped form part of my childhood," I said slowly, tasting the words as they came from my lips to see that they were suitable. "But you've never told me about yours."

"Well I suppose you've never asked before."

No, I had not. "I'm asking now."

Holmes sighed as he stretched out his full length in the bed and turned toward me. "Narrow down what you'd like to know, Russell. With the amount you're asking for, we'll be awake all night and telling into next week."

"Your parents. I know nothing about them."

Holmes sighed once more. "My father was a traveler, but we settled down by the time I was about thirteen, just in time to send me off to a nice school. Mycroft had been gone quite a while. He is, as you know, several years older than me."

"Are they still alive?"

"My mother died when I was fifteen, my father might as well have."

I stared at Holmes for a moment. There was a bitterness in his voice that I'd never heard before and hoped to never hear again. "I'm sorry," I said slowly. "I've brought up memories better left buried."

"No, you have every right to be curious about your own husband's life before Watson's stories." I laughed lightly at this. "Uncle John told lovely stories. I would guess - no, I'm sorry, I would deduce from your tone and mannerisms and words - that you and your father did not get along."

"No, we did not. He never thought well of my deductive skills. They were 'a waste of time and energy that could be used for more important matters.' It was always a mutual dislike of each other before… Well, later it became a bit more hateful."

I looked at him with question in my eyes, but I dared not ask. He saw it.

"I came home early on my Christmas holiday without announcing myself. My mother was out and Mycroft had not yet come home. Miss Margery Thomas was there. It was… I had no solid evidence, but I was sure of the facts in front of me. If you take away the improbable-"

"What remains must be the answer. She was his lover?"

"I believe at that time she might have been. Surely she was later when my mother fell ill. I walked in on them in the sitting room of all places. Father thought I would be in with Mother. He was angry. We yelled. Mother came in and saw what had happened. She was not a dull witted woman.

"'Look what you've caused, Sherlock!' said he. 'She could have died in peace without knowing anything.' I hated him for those words."

"She died after that?"

"Yes."

I shifted in bed. My hand, like my mouth had earlier, moved without my permission and stroked his face gently. "He was a fool, Holmes."

"So I tell myself daily."

I nodded, unsure of what to say.

He turned to me and smiled in the dim light. "You were wanting sleep, Russ," he reminded me quietly.

"No," I answered. "I was wanting you."

A/N: my shot at a cute thing between Holmes and Russell maybe a couple days after their marriage. Tell me if I kept everyone in character and if there's anythig wrong, or if you like it, I'd be much obliged for you to tell me that too.