Prompt Word: Gone
Sherlock dropped in exhaustion onto his brother's chest. Sobs racked his thin body, and his tears fell unchecked as the hysteria slowly waned. He clung to his brother in hopeless need, praying to all the gods he had never believed in to grant him just one miracle. "Don't be dead," he hiccoughed. "For me. Just… don't be dead." Sherlock rose slowly, lifting Mycroft with him. For all his gibes, his brother felt frighteningly light in his arms. Had so much changed in the two weeks since his funeral? Sherlock lifted his brother's shirt to trace his ribs. Then Mycroft moved.
