This child was a killer. Murderer. Executioner.
Criminal?
Why did babies not go to prison for manslaughter? John clutched his daughter tightly to his chest at this thought. A question he knew Sherlock could answer.
Watson looked down to the tightly wrapped child in his arms. She was nestled so comfortably and peacefully. If only she knew what she had done.
The maternal death rate had gone up. Death during pregnancy. 15 final pulses slowing to nothing. The beeping then bleeping of the incessant machine. It had all been so factual, like Sherlock's clinical collection of data.
It was funny how Sherlock had helped.
No. It was not funny at all.
He had swept in. He had pronounced her dead and then he had looked at the child and told John her future. Blond hair, like Mary. Intelligent and quick, like Mary. Excellent shot with a hand gun, like Mary. Scientific, like Mary. A girl of habit-
like you John.
How could he be holding himself and life and death in his hands all at once? -a question Sherlock could not answer.
The ticking of the clock was all to tell him that time really was moving on, for his daughter was as still as a ghost and his mind in the past.
The silence of the room was held by that ticking.
Sherlock sat on the sofa with his paper and John on the wooden stool, away from the window. Mrs Hudson was in the kitchen. Creeping around as quietly as possible.
Why was it all so unfair?
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Elizabeth Watson (John Watson's daughter- Sherlock fan fiction)
FanfictionElizabeth Watson, daughter of John and Mary, lives at 221B Baker Street with her father and the infamous Sherlock Holmes. Deafened by the unexplainable action of an enemy and driven by the love of her father, she must be clever, quick and cunning. W...
