A/N: Companion piece to "London Would Fall" by SherlockianDinosaur over on AO3 ( /works/1026480 ) You should read that first, she started it.
No one ever thought to wonder what Martha thought of it all. After all, hadn't she lost something in this, too? But no one asked. No, Sherlock found her, and she watched from over his shoulder as he clutched at her hand, then curled towards her body, pressed his head to the hand he clutched, trying to take it in. Her death. Inevitable, after all.
She drifted after him when he moved away and withdrew his phone, clutched it numbly in his hand and stared blankly at the wall. She almost tsked- he needn't dally so over her body, though she supposed she couldn't blame him.
At last, with stiff hands and taut shoulders, Sherlock dialed John's number, jabbing the keys as if they were responsible. They weren't- it was her time. Martha moved to lay a hand on his shoulder, and realized she had no hand. Why would a ghost have a hand? There was no reason to maintain corporeal shape outside of a body, after all. She'd never thought of that.
He looked so frail, lying in the hospital bed. Just a young man, just a boy. Far too young to be in hospital. His skin was thin, pale, blue veins standing out in sharp relief, interspersed with purpling jab marks.
No one on file for him, either. No next of kin on the whole continent, so she'd slipped into his room when she could get away from the police and their questions, settled into the chair at his bedside. Poor dear. John Doe, his chart read, because without so much as a wallet, the staff would be unable to identify him until he came around. If he came around. No, don't think like that. He'd be alright.
It was disturbing to watch the mortician process her body. A few sniped hairs for the obligatory DNA verification, a tag on the toe, and then she was handed over to the undertaker's preparation, to be made up and embalmed and prepared for burial. She didn't follow it.
Instead, she drifted after Ms. Molly Hooper into her office, watched her as she closed her door and settled down against it, slipping her glasses off so she could sob quietly into her arm. That was shocking. Ms. Hooper had always kept her calm, except around Sherlock, and Martha almost wanted to wrap her arms around the woman and let her cry. She didn't, of course. No arms.
She remembered the night Sherlock stumbled into her foyer, beaten and bloody, and told her that Marcus would never raise a hand to her again. She'd spent the rest of the evening and well into the night on autopilot, cleaning his wounds and wrapping his broken bones with medical tape.
She was safe- free- and all thanks to this brilliant, foolish young man she'd hit with her car. She could hardly believe it, but whenever she looked at his injuries, handed him paracetamol and a cup of tea, she could see Marcus' work on him, and knew he wouldn't be here if he hadn't felt he'd finished what he started. Foolish, brilliant boy. Always showing off.
Martha vowed to never let him feel alone again.
Seeing her body in a coffin was both horrible and disorienting, but it was worse to follow her boys back to the flat, watch John stalk away, shoulders hunched and hands in pockets, pain radiating off of him.
After a moment's hesitation, she followed Sherlock into his sitting room, watched as he sneered at the skull and the mantle she was forever trying to polish properly. He stood at the window, mourning her, and Martha felt a mother's pain- her son was hurting, and there was nothing she could do.