A/N: Facts: I'm back with another chapter, this one's shorter than the one before it, we'll all die eventually, gravity is active when your heart is beating, and there are 10 human body parts that are only 3 letters long (in English). Have a lovely day.


Martha Karnes was a thin elder woman with white hair and smile lines. John imagined she was probably a very happy woman, normally. But this wasn't normal. This was a grieving woman, and her smiles were much softer. A great deal faker than John assumed they would regularly be.

And John couldn't blame her.

They'd long past introductions, seated in the sitting room of Martha's home. She had an oxygen tank sitting next to her, the thin cord hooked underneath her nose and behind her ears. Her breathing wasn't very strong, and John could tell that, unless there was a dramatic improvement, the woman probably wouldn't live out the year.

In spite of this, she talked with Sherlock about the details of her granddaughter's funeral. When, where, if there would be a meal after, what would be served, etc. Everything Sherlock wished to know about whatever Mycroft and Martha had apparently arranged together.

All except one detail.

"And… what about her ashes?" Martha asked.

Sherlock hesitated. "I don't know."

"Not—"

"—with her father, of course not." Sherlock finished for her. "I know that if nothing else."

Martha thought for a moment. "When you think of Samantha finally resting, where would you imagine her doing that?"

Sherlock was shaking his head. "Where I spread the ashes won't—"

"Don't give me all of your logical, scientific mumbo-jumbo about how sentiment disregards reality." Martha scolded. "What we're talking about isn't her peace, Will. She's gone. Funerals aren't for the dead." She took a breath that sounded painful, looking Sherlock in the eyes. "I want to know what would give you peace."

Sherlock looked away from her. "I don't want you to ask me that."

"Why not?"

"Because peace doesn't exist for me," Sherlock told her. "Not now."

The woman scoffed. "You're wrong again. But my telling you that probably means very little." She sighed. "The ashes need spread."

He paused. "What if I just didn't?"

"William—"

"What if I can't, Martha?" Sherlock said. "I've only known her for five years. Five. What if that wasn't enough? If sentiment is so bloody important then why can't I just hold on to it all? Put up a shrine in my flat?"

"I don't think your friend would approve," Martha mentioned, glancing at John.

The doctor shrugged and responded without missing a beat. "It certainly wouldn't be the weirdest thing to sit on our shelves. It might not even be the first set of ashes. I can never predict things like that when it comes to Sherlock."

Sherlock looked to John with disbelief in his eyes.

John smiled. "Samantha would be welcome in our flat any time."

The detective was taken aback. He looked back at Martha silently.

The older woman's brow furrowed, her lips pinched together for a moment. "Just… take her with you."

Sherlock paled slightly. "I was being facetious."

"I'm not," Martha said. "You and I both know that she wouldn't want to stay here anyway."

He stared at her. "If I did, that would be the end of it."

John was surprised. Not just by the oddness of the discussion, but also Sherlock's acknowledgment of Martha's opinions on the subject. He was reminding the woman that, if Sherlock did take Samantha's ashes back to London, Martha wouldn't have them. He would be taking her granddaughter with him and Martha probably wouldn't see her again. It had a ringing finality that would make anyone uncomfortable, John was sure.

Martha only smiled. "I'm old, but that means I've been a fool long enough to gain a bit of wisdom. Samantha was happier with you. There's no denying that. I was only there for her when it was convenient for me."

"I can hardly say any different." Sherlock tried.

Martha narrowed her eyes. "She might have had a knack for forgetting the time-zone difference from here to London, but I didn't. I know how late those phone calls went when she needed someone to talk her down."

"But—"

"Sherlock Holmes," Martha cut him off, looking older than she had before, and far more tired. "Take your daughter home."

Sherlock looked at the woman in front of him and tried to find something to tell her. Something beyond what he really felt. He understood that when he held the urn that it would contain what was left of Samantha. But it didn't feel real to him to be talking as if that was all that made her up in the first place. He'd seen too many corpses to know that a person isn't their body.

He could tell Martha needed this. She needed some sort of closure. Some sort of final goodbye. And his mind brought up a promise he'd made to Samantha while she sat on a hospital bed.

"She loved you, you know."

Martha met Sherlock's firm gaze and empty face with an expression of her own. Opposite in every way. Her sadness was blatant on her face, causing the smile lines to stretch, and her eyes were distant. "I know she did. Because she forgave me."

They didn't stay for much longer.


Sherlock was quiet when they returned to their room at the hotel. John didn't say anything, merely watching as Sherlock dropped onto the couch and settled into its cushions.

John's mobile buzzed in his jacket pocket. He didn't really want to check it. He'd told Sarah before he left that he wasn't going to be contacting her. He'd meant during the trip, but she'd taken it to mean at all and seemed perfectly fine with that. John didn't really blame her; a narrow escape from impalement probably wasn't the best first-date.

She'd already texted him since then but he'd been in the middle of meeting Martha at the time and hadn't responded. He wondered, as is phone buzzed once more if perhaps she was texting him again.

He couldn't think of anyone else.

But the buzzes continued. Longer now and with rhythm. A call.

He reluctantly dug his mobile from his pocket and found that it wasn't at all who he'd expected. He answered.

"John? It's Greg."

"What can I do for you?" John asked.

"Hey, listen... Mycroft told me you guys were in America, and that I shouldn't contact you, but this is kind of urgent."

John stopped walking toward the room that had become his bedroom for the duration of their stay. He pressed the speaker harder against his ear as if that would help him hear better. "What is it?"

"An explosion across the street from your flat. It's made a mess of itself."

John swore, running a hand over his face. "Okay. What's the damage?"

"All of your windows broke inward, so the glass is all over the floor."

"How about Mrs. Hudson?"

"She was toward the back of the house, so she's fine." Lestrade's voice had taken a softer note as if sensing John's immediate concern for his landlady. That went away for the next part, easily being replaced by a conspiring tone. "I'm to tell you it was a gas leak."

John frowned at the wording. "You don't think so?"

"I know it's not. Just made to look like one. I called you because I didn't think Sherlock would answer."

John looked over his shoulder at the Consulting Detective, lying on the couch with his eyes closed and brow furrowed. "Yeah, he wouldn't have."

There was a pause over the line. "Are you two all right?"

John hesitated. "Not really, no. But we could use a distraction."

Lestrade seemed to hesitate. "Okay. Well, there wasn't much left of the place. Only a box. A very strong box."

John frowned. "Weird. What was inside?"

"An envelope addressed to one Sherlock Holmes."

The doctor once more glanced at his friend. Sherlock's eyes were open now, curiously observing John's every move. John clenched his jaw for a moment. "I'm going to put you on speaker."


A/N: I almost forgot - thanks for the follows and favorites, you guys! I don't know who you are but I appreciate your continued existence.

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