The End
"Sing me to sleep
Sing me to sleep
I don't want to wake up
On my own anymore."
Asleep – The Smiths
He watched bitterly as the world went by. He didn't know it was possible to hurt that much, every fiber of his being screamed out in agony. It was justified though. He got exactly what he deserved. His mind told him he deserved much worse, so he should consider himself lucky, and he truly did. Life could be much harder than it was now, after all, every time he thought he'd hit rock bottom so far, he had come to find it was only the beginning of his pain.
"Derek?" a soft voice whispered tentatively. Slowly, he turned to see Stiles standing in the doorway clearly not sure if it would be alright to cross the threshold.
Stiles, he thought, how can you not see? Derek loved him. More than he should. More than was appropriate. He'd tried to deny it, but looking at him in that moment, all he could think was God, I love you. Don't you understand? I love you, but I can't hurt you. Everyone around me gets hurt. I won't let that happen to you.
"Derek, please, talk to me," Stiles tried again, looking desperate.
"There's nothing to talk about. I'm fine. I'll be fine," Derek spoke turning back towards the window.
"You're not. I know you're not. Let me help. I just want to help," Stiles pleaded.
"No one can help me," Derek whispered turning to look at Stiles once more. The look in his eyes made Stiles' stomach clench. There was no trace of sadness, no trace of fear, nothing. His eyes were expressionless. They were dead eyes.
Stiles hesitated then took a small step forward. "Derek," he choked. "Let's just talk about this. Please give me the gun."
Derek's thoughts were immediately brought back to the feel of the cool metal against his hand. He had almost forgotten the gun was there. He had almost forgotten about the bullet laced with wolfsbane in it. He tightened his grip. Clenching his jaw, he growled, "I told you. There's nothing to say."
"Please. We can go anywhere, do anything. I'll do anything. Just tell me what to do." Stiles was begging at this voice choked with tears.
Derek felt like his heart had been gauged out of his chest. He couldn't stand the sight of Stiles' watery eyes looking at him, pleading with him. He knew what he had to do; he was doing this for Stiles. "I'm sorry. I love you. I can't hurt you anymore."
"NO!" Stiles screamed, but it was too late. The gunshot rang out through the air. Blood splattered onto the window, and Derek's body slumped to the floor.
"No…no…NO!" Stiles shrieked as he ran to the body and lifted Derek's head into his hands. "You can't die! You can't leave me here alone! Please, God, please! You can't do this to me! Wake up, Derek, wake up!" Stiles screamed, but it was useless. Derek was dead.
XXX
Stiles remained on the floor clutching Derek's lifeless body to his chest for what seemed like years. He could hear the sirens blaring in the distance. Someone must have heard the gunshot and called it in. He didn't care. All he cared about was the body slumped in front of him. He clutched it as if he could squeeze the life back into Derek's rapidly cooling body.
Stiles didn't even flinch when the paramedics kicked down the door to the loft. He simply continued to rock back and forth holding onto Derek like a lifeline.
He didn't make a sound until the paramedics finally tried to drag him away. As soon as he felt a hand pulling him back, he began screaming, trying to tell them he couldn't leave him, he had to keep him warm, had to fix him, had to save him. Didn't Derek know he loved him? Didn't he know that Stiles could breathe without him?
"He's gone," one of the paramedics tried to tell him, but he kept fighting against the hands. He kicked and screamed and cried until he was pulled out of the loft; then he fell silent.
"Can you tell us what happened?" someone asked, but he didn't respond. He was done talking. He never wanted to talk again. He died with Derek in that room. There was nothing left for him. Nothing more to live for.
Two lives were destroyed with that bullet. Sure, Stiles was still breathing, but he'd never be the same. The damage was done. And the outsiders were left to wonder how something like that could have happened. They would feel sorry and say what a shame it was as people always do in the face of events like that. But they would forget. They would move on with their lives, and there would be no one left to remember those two lives that were cut short. They would disappear into nothing more than a small news article in the paper and a police report collecting dust in storage.