A/N: This is my very first bit of fan fiction I have written. I hope you enjoy it and I would love to read your thoughts and reviews of it, and any tips and ideas you might have for me about writing in the Sherlock fandom or writing in general.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock I'm just visiting around with them.

~Special thanks for all their help, encouragement and patience to this writing noob~

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And my dear sister, Chestry007.

She slowly walked through the quiet cemetery, holding a vase of Bluebells in her hands; the same Bluebells that the person she was going to give them to had helped her plant in her small flower box not but a few weeks ago.

He had, of course, only done it in return for her not adding the value of 221B's kitchen table - lit on fire during one of his unstable experiments - to his share of the rent. Still, he actually had surprised her when he calmly said that he'd plant the flowers instead of giving his usual dismissive hand wave at the trifling idea of more money being added to his rent.

She paused, blinking away tears that were threatening as the memory overwhelmed her.

Even though it had been under the pretense of "help plant my flowers or get extra pounds planted on this month's rent", those few minutes of trivial flower planting had made her day.

A day where, unlike today's tears, her eyes had sparkled with happiness and joy that he was able to spend the time to "dabble" with such menial things as flowers and to spend a few minutes with her.

Although the idea had probably seemed horribly boring to him at first, it had turned out as a win-win situation in the end. She was left with a stunning box of Bluebells and he left with a sample of potting soil and a beautifully dirtied shirt - John's, of course - for his newest experiment.

She found what she was looking for and slowly walked over. She stood quietly for a moment in front of the glossy black headstone, slow tears sliding down her face, before sitting down on the carved stone bench that had recently been placed at the foot of the grave. Holding her flowers, she sat silently for a minute or so before her soft voice began to float through the air, hardly audible unless you took the time to listen. Which he did.

"My dear Sherlock, I want to understand. But I know you can't always understand the reasons why. If there was a reason for all of this, I'm sure you had a good one and I forgive you for it…I always have and always will believe in you.

"Thank you for allowing me the honor of knowing you, Sherlock. I really hope that I made as much of a difference in your life as you did in mine. You made me feel like I had a purpose again – and not just as the lady that owned and rented a flat! You and your John well, you gave me a reason to care again, to care for someone again and not just for myself.

"You made me feel like an old lady like me could be important again. And you made me glad that I was the one who let out 221B Baker Street. You made me part of you – as much as you could – and I loved it, I really did! I know we had a couple of rows that could have awoken the dead and there were times I wanted to lock you out of the flat and to pretend I never knew you or seen you before in my life!

But, I wouldn't give up those memories – good or bad – for anything, not for all the unburnt kitchen tables, bulletless walls or unstained rugs and un-decimated furniture in the world."

She paused, letting the memories of those days interrupt her for a moment. A soft chuckle escaped her as, sighing, she brushed a sliding tear off her cheek with her slightly trembling hand.

"They're saying you're a fake and not a hero; and that the way you die really defines what you are or are not. But I don't believe them. I know that you were many things, Sherlock, but you were never a fraud.

"A terribly sore loser at bingo when I really did beat you at it. A terrible patient, yes. A disastrous tenant? Yes, you were indeed. And a man who took a burden too heavy to bear alone.

"But a fraud? No.

"The thing is, I do truly believe, Sherlock, that if a hero dies in an un-heroic way it does not undo all the things he has done in the past. Even though you just see one page of his life and do not see how he falls in the next.

"Some heroes can't control the way they die, because they have spent their whole lives helping and saving other people. Then, when it gets to their time, they have nothing for themselves and they just can't save themselves. People can't see that they are suffering and they need help and saving; that the lion needs saving, just as much as the lamb.

"I will tell you this one thing that I do know though, dear. The thing that makes you a hero is the people that have had the privilege of being with you, not just the things people have seen or read, but the things they did not see – like you taking the time to help this old lady be free of her abusive husband.

Or that time, on a cold November day when you let me teach you how to make the perfect batch of chocolate biscuits.

"And the time you tossed an agent multiple times out the window for roughing me up in my home, even though it was worth the pain and scare; I was glad I fooled them long enough so that they didn't find what they had come for. You always did teach me how to hide things beautifully well, Sherlock.

"And for all the times where you bent down and hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. And the times when you proudly wore that blue scarf I knitted for you the Christmas time of the first year we met. And all the times you let me win in cards and at bingo.

A soft giggle escaped her and then it was gone as quickly as it came, and more tears filled her eyes. She didn't even try to brush them away this time.

"And all those nice spring afternoons after we first met. You would visit me sometimes and we would go sit on that park bench and people watch or "Observe" as you always so seriously called it; and later I would make us a bit of dinner and we would eat and watch crap telly programs. Even though according to you they were "asinine rubbish," I knew you enjoyed them when you didn't think I was looking.

"And remember, dear. How you would spend some nights on the settee? You never asked to stay, but I could see it in your eyes and I always left that blue blanket out for you and would find you there in the morning. Since then I have always left the blanket out for you. I'm glad that I could offer you some bit of sanctuary from that world you lived in before John came.

"It's those things that have made you my hero, Sherlock. The simple little things that other people never saw. They don't have a right to say you are not a hero because they haven't seen what I have. If it just takes one"Not- a Housekeeper" and one "Blogger" to think you are a hero, then there is nothing in the world left to say that you are not, and that's the end of that.

"You will never change in my mind, I promise you.

"I dearly wish I could have been there with you in those moments, Dear, I wish I could have known, and I'm very sorry I failed to be there for you. I would have been there."

A cool breeze picked up suddenly through the cemetery, making the tree leaves rustle and the vines of the weeping willow sway gently with the rhythm and motion of the wind.

The world was quiet here, just the soft sea like whispering of wind and trees.

As she listened to the soft murmuring of the trees, something that had been heavy on her mind for those last few days arose and presented itself again. This time it would not allow itself be hidden away.

"You know Sherlock; I have heard people say before that you were just a machine without a heart; but I always knew you had one. Only someone with a heart could have done what you did. If you did not have one, well, there would be no reason for all of this. Something must have driven you to that point for you to visit that roof; something strongly connected to your heart.

"Maybe it was a new discovery of something that you just realized for the first time that you understood and never felt before. And, that only by taking that fall, could you finda way to protect and save it.

"I don't know... I don't think John does either…"

"But that's just another thing only you will ever know or understand. John always did say you had at least one reason for all your methods of madness. I believe that is what he is clinging to. I mean, who could know you better than him? I believe he knew you better than you knew yourself.

"That's all I could think about on the first night of your death. After John left me, all I could do was sit there in the dark and clutch that old blue blanket to myself and listen to John cry in the flat above me. My tears finally joined his no matter how fiercely I told myself and that blanket I held "No tears." But the blanket wouldn't listen, and it collected my tears anyway.

"The next night when John asked if he could sleep on my settee, I gave him the blanket to keep. It's been a long time since that blanket has seen so many tears, hasn't it Sherlock? You would know the best of anyone."

She paused again, blinking away threatening tears. Thinking about her boys and the bond that formed and held them and now was taken away.

"He won't stay in the flat, you know, Martha." She thought to herself looking up at the Weeping willow tree beside the grave, and shifting slightly on the bench when her bad hip gave her a pinch because of the cold seeping into it.

"I think he is going to leave me too. I can see it. I'm going to lose both my boys at the same time, and I'm afraid. I have lost one in body and soul, and I have lost the other in spirit and mind. And I can't do anything to fix either of them.

"The Brain can't live without its Heart, and the Heart can't live without its Brain; and they are at a loss without each other. Only the one can help the other live and feel again. And now they are both separated and lost from each other forever. They have turned into the remains of the day.

And John…I believe he is still there, trapped in those remains; over and over, always searching and trying to find a way to save Sherlock, and change what happened in those moments that took place at the roof. He might have left it physically; but mentally and emotionally he is still trapped there. And I think in a way he always will be."

Turning back to the headstone she smiled. Speaking again, her voice lighter now and becoming its usual tone and vigor.

"I suppose it seems silly for someone's landlady to be sitting here talking to them with all these deep observations of things she hardly knows anything about to someone like you, but maybe it isn't as silly for a mother to do so…I do feel, and have felt, like a mother and not just a landlady to you and John at times and well, you boys were the best I could have ever asked for in the way of having sons."

"Don't you worry, Sherlock, I shall always take care of him. I love and miss you terribly, my dear boy, and I will always leave a light on for you and the flat open for him. And yes, even for your brother, Mycroft. He's already been over twice. And also Inspector Lestrade, even he has come around a few times to see John and to see if we needed anything.

She paused for a moment gathering her coat around herself her, smiling while looking down at the small vase of bluebells beside her on the bench. "Oh, yes. Before I leave, I wanted to give you these."

She rose, walked over to the headstone and placed the vase of flowers at the foot of the headstone. "I brought these flowers for you. You remember the day we planted them in the flower box, don't you? Of course you do. What was it you called me that day with you sitting rather disgustedly on the floor, up to your elbows in potting soil? Blackmailing woman I believe, wasn't it?"

It was her soft laugh that could be heard through the cemetery this time, erasing all signs of the sad voice that had been left earlier.

Bluebells were once associated with death but, over time, came to represent constancy, gratitude and humility; the flowers often as given as gifts to say thank you and to express humble appreciation of someone in either love or friendship.

She had always liked the color blue, even before she had met the boys.

But now the color of the flowers had become something more to her, something significant and special.

They had come to have meaning and memories: the flash of Sherlock's blue scarf as he dashed past her in the doorway after the ever present thrill and pursuit of the game. The excited shine in John's blue eyes as he came and kissed her on the cheek before following suit through the door as the ever loyal friend and blogger that he was.

She never knew something as simple as a single color could hold and present such precious memories to a person then the color blue did to herself.

With everything all said and done, she reached over and gently ran her hand along the smooth top of the black marble headstone "Good bye, Sherlock," she whispered one last time to him and with that she straightened and turned, walking away resolutely, albeit shakily, through the austere cemetery without looking back.

Leaving them there, the small vase of light blue flowers against the base of the tall, dark and slender headstone, with the sun casting shadows on the headstone and making them curl around the vase like a person would enfold another into a soft embrace.