Disclaimer: I am not an affiliate of BBC or Sherlock, nor do I own or profit off of the work of fiction made for fans.
AN: So, after editing my previous chapter, it got me into the mood to actually write something else for this story. This chapter is going to be pretty gloomy, especially from the Watson's standpoint, but hopefully there will be little rays of sunlight here or there. Let me know what you think. Read and review.
It felt like months since Mary's death, though it had been a mere forty-eight hours since his wife had…
Today, the nurse with the fake green lenses told John that he could take his baby girl home. Their baby girl. He didn't like the English language anymore. He, she, their, his… There were so many moments this morning when the unsuspecting intern was warning him of the something the baby's mum ought to watch out for, only to watch the uncomfortable kid clear his throat and change his pronouns to him and his. Even the English language reminded John of Mary's absence. Of his loss; of his daughter's loss.
It was a tremendous moment to place Baby Leila into her little pram. But, it felt like every positive moment, every first he would have with his beautiful daughter would be a moment stolen from his wife. She wanted to be here. She would have loved to see Leila wrap her fingers around John's pinky. Mary would have rolled her eyes when he cried the first time he held her. She was a perfect little angel. And he hated that all he wanted to do was cry. He didn't want to carry on. Survivor's guilt? He had been there before. But, John had never felt it so acutely then the first moment the nurse placed the baby in his arms. He felt like he was stealing her from his wife's hands.
Leila's father reached down and tucked in the white waffle blanket around her, nestling it close to her, in her sleeping state. He wondered if there would ever be a time that he could look at his daughter and not think of Mary. But, he knew better. He knew that even if he couldn't think past it now, his wife would never forgive him for being like this around their daughter. He could be depressed now, but someday he'd have to move on. Just then, he felt the buzz of a text in his jacket pocket. He knew before he even looked at his screen that it would be Sherlock. And as if he had taken too long to answer the first text, another immediately followed it.
And then as if Sherlock had been standing right behind him making huffy noises, he was receiving a phone call right there in front of Leila's pram in the middle of the outpatient offices. Ridiculous. Just ridiculous. John moves to press 'ignore', but as the mobile buzzes, he can't help but wonder if this is the time of all of the times he's taken calls that Sherlock truly needs him. Longsufferingly he answers the call in his most exasperated tone, "Wot?!"
There is a distinct rustling in the background, he's not quite sure where to place it. Then Sherlock's matter-of-fact tone comes alive in his ear. "John? You aren't busy? Of course, you're busy. New father and all. Bring Baby Watson with you. Before you hang up on me, I need your help. We were right. Foul play. Molly says she was poisoned. The blunt trauma happened after she was comatose. Meet me at the address I texted you. Oh, and bring an extra blanket for Leila. It's nippy. Can't have the newest Watson falling ill now. What kind of godfather would I be?" Click.
It was as simple as that and he was being roped into an investigation. John clicks through his missed messages and pulls up the apparent chilly place in GPS. It's four blocks away from the hospital. He makes the little pink hat that Leila has on, dips below her ears, to keep her warm. John nods at the green eyed nurse and heads out into the cool evening. It's around sunset when he reaches the place, which happens to be an empty dirt lot, save for a small garden at the far end. That is where he spots Sherlock laying on his side with a bright light emitted from his mobile staring at a tomato plant. The Doctor is fairly certain at this point, that he has truly lost his friend to madness or perhaps his mind palace, whichever enveloped him first.
Still the new father found little trouble approaching upon his friend, even with the pram guiding the way. Even after John parked his daughter's pram and looked her over once more, Sherlock was still silent. But, soon it was far from silent.
"What was Mary's favorite vegetable?" He asked, like a normal person commented upon the passing hour. John should have been used to such strange questions by now, and yet, he was still entirely at a loss.
"Don't worry, I'll answer for you. When you made up your dinner menu for your wedding, Mary and you had a bit of a row about which vegetable should be served. You wanted potatoes to accompany the tri-tip, but Mary, perhaps with her maternal cravings, wished to comment that her favorite side was asparagus, but only if it had tomatoes. Tomatoes were her favorite vegetable." John went to open his mouth to correct him, as even children knew that tomatoes were more fruit than vegetable.
"Yes, I am aware that I asked you which 'vegetable', but as Mary liked to believe it was a 'vegetable' I'll just let that slide. Anyway, do you know what fruit or vegetable has trace amounts of arsenic in them? As well as trace amounts of nicotine. Bingo, John you've got it. Tomatoes!" He popped up from off the ground, approaching the pram, and lowering his tone as if he hadn't been shouting all along.
"There are only three places in this district that has home-grown tomatoes." Sherlock says confidently. And as always, John finds himself asking the question before he can really stop it.
"What stops a person from popping by the market and not buying a tomato?" Sherlock had the good nature to seem surprised that he had asked such a question. John idly rocked the pram as his daughter slept, trying very hard not to over think this moment. Not to think about which death tomatoes may have caused.
"Ah John, there is absolutely nothing to stop one from buying a tomato, but growing a tomato without the hint of pesticides. That's a little more unique. And due to Molly's extra long toxicology report, there was no trace at all of added pesticides. In order to concoct an experiment, to see exactly which tomato is the culprit, well have to cross-examine each of the specimens."
John felt his eyes narrowing. What was he implying? As Sherlock crossed his arms, he knew exactly what he was implying. John caught himself, staring at how dusty Sherlock's white shirt had gotten, after lying down in a field; how the dust smudged his chin. Had his chin always been so sharp?
"Come along John, we've some tomatoes to steal." Sherlock took over pushing the pram, allowing John to follow.
"Take him out. You know, run him." Sherlock was fairly sure Mary was up there being proud right now. The sooner John stopped dwelling; the sooner he could focus on the task at hand.