Guys, my feelings ripped out my tear ducts over Merles death. So I'm putting the pain into Daryl. He wanders back to The Prison after putting his brother down and greives in Merles cell while holding on of his shirts.

*~Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead or it's characters. If I did Merle would still be alive.

They'd run to the gate, flinging it open for him the second he'd come out of the tree line. Everyone was talking at him, putting their hands on him, asking if he was hurt and what had happened. He looked down at the hands on his arms, waiting for the warmth of skin to register on his own or the discomfort that always accompanied it, but there was nothing. Didn't feel anything as he looked at the people around him either, not for Rick or Carol or even the baby. No warmth, no friendship, no anything. He felt nothing. He was numb.

The crowd slowly stepped back from him, one by one, looking at him like someone had replaced their friend with a stranger. That was okay, the feeling was mutual, he thought distantly as he shouldered passed them. Nobody followed him into the cellblock; a few called his name, but didn't follow him.

He didn't go to his own cell, instead, he walked into the space his brother had been in just a few hours ago. Because Merle had only been with them for such a short time, he didn't think his brothers presence would be so choking in the small cell. But Merle was everywhere in that room. From the way the sheets were rucked up away from the foot of the cot- Merle never could stand the sheets near his feet when he slept, said it gave him nightmares- to the shapeless little scribbles on the metal frame his brother had apparently doodled in a moment of bordom, just like he'd done ever since Daryl could remember.

He walked toward where his brother'd slept quietly because he had the odd thought in his head that making any noise would wake the ghosts. He sat down on the thin mattress, absently wondering if Merle'd dreamed last night. If he did, was it a good dream? Was he happy in it? Daryl desperately wanted to belive he was. As he looked down the length of the cot, imagining his brother sleeping there, he saw the black shirt t-shirt Merle'd worn the day before folded across the railing at the foot of the frame. He reached for it, holding it by the collar with both hands while the rest of it covered his lap. It still smelled like him, a warm earthy scent, almost like fossil wood.

Hot tears stung his eyes and he buried his head in the black matirial, trying to take comfort from the familier scent and wishing with everything he had that it was his brothers shoulder he was crying on.

"I love ya, Merle." He whispered into the shirt, rocking himself slowly. Without being aware he was doing it, he started pouring his heart out. Everything he'd never said to his brother that he'd wanted to came rushing out like water from a broken dam. That he'd never blamed Merle for leaving, that none of what happened afterwords was his fault, how much he'd missed him when he'd been in juvie and prison and over the passed year, that he didn't mean anything he'd said in the woods after they saved those people on the bridge, and that he loved him more then anything or anybody.

"Should'a left when we had the chance, brother."

And he'd been right. These passed few days had proven that. The Group, except Hershel, had pretty much cast him off. Glenn avoided him, Carol stopped talking to him, and Rick... Rick had let him leave. He'd thought he'd meant more, but the lack of resistance when he'd left with his brother showed how little they cared. He just hadn't wanted too see it. And when they'd come back? Well, Merle wasn't the only one who got dirty looks. The hostility and distrust was aimed at him too. He should've stayed in the woods. Kept going with Merle. None of this would've happened.

Now he had no family, no friends, and no brother. He was totally alone.