Whenever Sherlock was sick - that was the request. Since childhood, icecream, custard and jelly had all been passed over for a blended mush of potato and pumpkin, beans and broccoli. Mother found it strange, but obviously didn’t mind - at least one of her boys was eating his vegetables without having to be bribed.
He never told John about his odd food preference. There was no particular reason why. It was, he supposed, a ‘mother only’ thing; one of the few things in he thought of positively of her. She had always been genuinely kind when he was taken ill. Even Mycroft was ignored when Sherlock requested smushed veggies.
The last time he ate it was the night before he left home. He’d not told her he was leaving, but still she served it up without being asked. She knew (of course she did), though he wasn’t sure how.
Their last ‘good’ night together; before university and before the drugs, before he stopped taking her calls and before she stopped trying.
Sense memory, he considered as he walked through the kitchen, the smells from the vegetables on the stove assaulting his nose, what an irritating concept.