Author's Note: My story "Stockholm" had started as a one-shot written mostly to satisfy my frustration at how unbelievably sexy Sylar is (coupled with how clearly gay, and therefore unattainable Zachary Quinto is). Due to an overwhelming response from readers who insisted I continue, not only has there been a sequel entitled, "Every Secret Thing," but I decided to write a third installment.

And this time, it's multi-chapter. This story will take place after the events of "An Invisible Thread." As of right now, Season Four of Heroes has not yet begun, so I don't know what they're planning to do. Consider this an AU story.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous stories. I hope you enjoy this one as well. Rest assured there will be fun sexy time later on, hence the M rating.

Disclaimer: I do not own "Heroes," or any of the characters in the following story except Maggie.

The Picture on the Box

by Michele McNally

A Heroes Fanfiction

Rated: M

For the most part, it was the same as most of the shelters I'd stayed at over the past few months. It had the same gray, graffiti-ridden walls, the same thin mattresses and scratchy blankets. The same watery soup. The same looks of pity when their eyes landed upon the bulge under my sweater. But for all the similarities, this latest building had one significant difference.

Roof access.

It didn't make much sense. This kind of place, filled with people at the end of their rope, who'd lost everything they ever had, you'd think they kept the door to the roof heavily guarded. But there it was at the top of the stairs, with no lock, just a sign that read "Authorized Personnel Only."

The black tar was littered with cigarette butts and empty whiskey bottles. I kicked them aside as I made my way to edge, one hand cradling the stomach in which my baby grew.

I wasn't going to jump. I just wanted to see. I wanted to look down onto the busy city and pretend that everything down there was as small as I felt. When I got to the edge and peered down at the traffic, my baby kicked. It wouldn't be long now. I was seven months pregnant, and five months unemployed.

When Sylar had let me go at a rest stop on the New York State Thruway, it had been the middle of the summer. I was 90 miles away from New York City, and the only money I had on me was the wad of bills stuffed in my purse. My tips from the night I'd been kidnapped.

When I got back to the city I went back to Mike's, but it was no longer Mike's. It had turned into some kind of vegan coffee shop where everything on the menu was "organic," and there was no one there who knew who I was. They said I wasn't the right "type" for that kind of place. Probably because I had been wearing my leather jacket when I walked in to fill out the application. Dead cow doesn't really mix well with the vegan crowd I guess.

I had nowhere to live. I only had one friend from Mike's who hadn't changed her number, and she let me stay on her couch for a few weeks. But after a few weeks her boyfriend started making comments about threesomes, which Heather didn't really seem too crazy about. Then one day I walked in on them having sex (on the kitchen table) and was almost immediately thrown out onto the street. Good riddance as far as I'm concerned. I ate on that table for God's sake.

I managed to find one restaurant that would hire me, but as soon as they found out I was pregnant, I was let go. They said that they didn't want to hire me only to have to deal with maternity leave so soon after. After that I began to show, and it was even harder to get a job. Nobody wanted to hire a pregnant girl. So I started moving from Women's Shelter to Women's Shelter, looking for work during the day, sleeping on thin, bed bug-ridden mattresses by night. As the weather got colder my tiny leather jacket no longer kept me from shivering, I would raid the clothing bins at churches.

And to make matters even worse, every once in a while I would sneeze, and something on the other side of the room would explode or go flying. Once I up-ended an entire vat of minestrone on line at the Soup Kitchen.

I was completely one hundred percent, balls to the wall horrified about what would happen once I gave birth to the baby.

As much as I'd hated my captivity, and wished for months that I could find a way to escape, I missed my Gabriel. I missed to security of my bomb shelter. There I knew that nothing would ever hurt me. I would have food, I would have clothing, I would be warm and if I got sick there would be someone there to take care of me. Part of me wondered if this baby was worth giving up that sanctuary.

He kicked.

Yes, he was worth it.

Behind me, someone cleared their throat. I jumped back from the edge, a protective hand on my stomach. I realize that this must look bad, standing on the edge of a tall building, looking down into the speeding traffic below. Someone had probably spotted me and sent a plain-clothes Police officer to talk me down from the ledge.

"I wasn't going to jump," I said quickly.

The young man behind me smiled. He was tall and lean with dark, wavy hair that fell into his eyes. "I know," he said. "I just… saw that you were alone. Thought you might need a friend."

He had that Goody Two-Shoes kind of look to him. Like he was about to set up a lemonade stand somewhere, raise money so that his senior class could sponsor an Ethiopian orphan. He was probably lying when he said he knew I wouldn't jump, and I fully believed that he would pull me down before I even had the chance.

I tried to give him a smile, but the best I could do was a little smirk that I'm sure looked like a grimace. I was out of practice smiling. "I'm fine."

He shook his head. "I… I'm sure that you're doing fine, but I know it must be hard for you right now."

Oh great. He was probably some kind of freaky Jesus-loving missionary who was bent on "saving me" for the sake of my soul and the soul of my unborn baby boy. "Listen," I said, eager to cut to the chase and let him know I wasn't interested in what he was selling, "I'm not the first unwed mother to come through here and I'm sure I won't be the last."

"I don't mean that," he said. "I mean because of your baby's ability."

Well that was unexpected.

"What?" I asked, perplexed. "How—" But I could tell from the way he was looking at me there was no denying it. He knew that my baby had abilities. All that remained was to figure out why he knew, and what he wanted. "How did you know that?"

"It's part of my ability," he answered. "I'm like him. Like your baby. Special."

That was the word that Gabriel had always used to describe himself. He had said he was "special." That they others like him were "special." Though I never said it to him, I always hated that classification. It made me feel inferior. They weren't "special," I would tell myself. Just different.

Because my only interaction with someone with abilities had resulted in my being kidnapped and held captive for over seven months, I was automatically suspicious.

"What do you want?"

He seemed to sense my dubiousness. He put up his hands. "I just want to help."

"Why?"

He shrugged. Then he gestured to a large metal structure to his right. It was some kind of air conditioning vent or something. I don't know. It was one of those big gray things you see on rooftops. But it was big enough to sit on, which he did, and he patted the hollow metal next to him. With mild trepidation, I sat down next to him.

"Now, I know that this will probably freak you out," he told me, speaking to me in a tone of voice that suggested he and I were old friends. "But I'm going to ask you to trust me. I just want you and the baby to be safe, and healthy."

"Oh God," I said. "My baby's not some kind of prophesized Chosen One or something, is he? Like, is he going to grow up to be some big leader of the Special People and rule over all the lesser beings? And you're here to keep some big evil government agency from killing me? Like Terminator?"

He blinked. "No."

"Oh. Okay. Just checking."

"No… I'm… I'm here on behalf of a group of people who have spent the last few years interacting with Gabriel Sylar."

The moment he said the name, the air came rushing out of my lungs like someone had punched me in the stomach. Until now, the thought had crossed my mind that I was the only one in the world who knew that Gabriel Sylar even existed. For all I knew, the only other human beings who'd ever been lucky enough to see his face had been killed shortly thereafter. I was the only survivor. But I was wrong. Here was someone who knew who Sylar was. Maybe he knew where I could find him, and how I would get back.

"What do you mean by 'interacting'?" I asked once my voice returned.

"Fighting him, chasing him, running from him and working side-by-side with him," he clarified. "You of all people should know, that Sylar is a very complicated person."

"You got that right."

"I found you because I wanted to put you in touch with them," said my mystery man. "There's not many people in the world who can understand what you're going through right now. But this guy—" He pressed a piece of paper into my hand. "He knows Sylar. And he's exactly the kind of guy who can help you."

"What about you?" I asked. "Why can't you help me?" There was something about this guy that made me feel like I was on familiar territory. The way he looked at me, his eyes were filled with tenderness. His voice had only compassion in it. I felt like I could curl up and go to sleep right here, my head on his lap, and nothing bad would ever happen to me ever again.

He looked like my Gabriel. His voice had the same deep velvety tone. He even smelled like my Gabriel.

"I can't stay," he said. "But you should find this guy. His name's Peter Petrelli. His address is on the paper." He looked up at the sky and squinted into the setting sun. "Look, I have to go. Just promise me that you'll take care of yourself, okay?"

He got up. I got up. I didn't want him to go. I missed Gabriel so much, and he reminded me of him so completely.

"Thank you!" I burst out, eager to make him turn back around and face me again. He did. "Please, what can I do to thank you?"

A sad smile crossed his lips. "You can name the baby after me."

"What's your name?"

"It's Derek," he said, and I let out a breathless laugh. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just… that was my father's name."

He smirked. "I know."

And he turned, and walked out the door, down the stairs and out of my life. My baby kicked. I put my hand over him to try to soothe his restlessness. Derek. I had already been planning on naming my baby after my late father.

And then it hit me. The name. The physical resemblance. The intimate knowledge of my plight, my kidnapping, my baby's father. All these miraculous things happening in front of my very eyes. People could move things with their minds, make sparks shoot out of their hands. Why hadn't it occurred to me right away that someone might be able to travel back in time?

Why hadn't I realized that I'd been talking to my own son?