Sherlock's hands were shaking, the blood sunk into his skin, crusting. He hadn't moved since Mycroft had arrived, rigid on the hospital chair.

He finally spoke.

"There was nothing to be done, brother."

Like someone had snapped a string in him, Sherlock's posture slumped, his hands covering his face, the shaking now in his shoulders.

"Nothing to be done," Mycroft said, soft. His hand settled on Sherlock's shoulder as a deep keening sound tore through him.

That day the air was doused with cold ice, seeming to reach right into his chest.