Thomas came to slowly. His mind hovered somewhere between asleep and awake, where you can kind of hear what's going on around you and you're aware of the passing time but you still have one foot in your dreams and you can't seem to open your eyes. He could hear conversations floating above him, but he couldn't make out the words. He knew he needed to wake up, but the place he was in was so peaceful, probably one of the first good night's sleep in his memory. Nobody was screaming in his head, memories of death and pain didn't haunt him. He wanted to stay here forever. Content to float in this in-between as long as he could.

The words that floated in the space around him grew clearer if he concentrated, which he didn't care to do. It wasn't till he heard the word WICKED that consciousness crashed down on him without warning.

The first thing he became immediately aware of was the gentle throbbing in his leg. His eyes opened without permission and he was greeted by a white ceiling. Everything was so bright, and white, everything he could see was white. Thomas sucked in a breath and squeezed his eyes closed again, fighting down the panic that rose in his throat like bile. He stayed there completely rigid with his eyes screwed shut just breathing for a long time.

When finally he forced himself to calm down he opened his eyes again. Nothing was the same as that white room. Even the white itself was off. Plus there was a very obvious door directly in front of him. He continued surveying the room and saw a man leaning back in a chair in the corner of the room. Thomas watched the man for a long time before he decided he must be asleep. He did notice the gold star looking badge, and Thomas's WICKED uniform laying on the side table next to him. He figured it was the cop that was supposed to be guarding him.

He looked down at himself when he was confident the cop wouldn't wake up. His leg was propped up on some pillows and his arm had an IV in it. He stared at the bag of clear liquid and decided he didn't want to know what it was. He gripped it with his free hand and in one easy motion ripped the needle out of his arm, wincing slightly as he did it. There was a rail on either side of his bed and he couldn't quite figure out how to move it without making far too much noise and waking up the cop. Instead, he swung his good leg over the side easily and had to work to get his bad leg over too before pushing himself onto the floor, careful not to land on his hurt leg. The landing wasn't graceful, his good knee buckled and he fell forward in the process, knocking over the IV stand.

"Son?" the cop asked groggily, and Thomas cursed under his breath, forcing himself up and half limping half throwing himself through the door where he lost balance again and had to catch himself on the wall.

There were too many people. It felt like they were converging on him and his stomach churned with his sudden movement. He could see people heading towards him in the same all-black uniforms as the people that came to them in WICKED. One of them caught up to him easily, but before he could do anything Thomas lunged at him, throwing all his weight into him and grabbing for his gun.

"Whoa whoa. Hey now, relax son, it's alright." Thomas looked up to where the cop from his room was now standing in front of him. Thomas tightened his hold on the gun and brought it down hard on his head, knocking him out before he stood and pointed it at the other man.

"I want to see my friends" he shouted.

"They'll be here soon stiles, put the gun down. Scott's bringing your friends."

"Who the shuck are you talking about? Where's Minho, where's," his voice caught in his throat, "where's Newt?" he glanced around him for some sign of an exit. Spotting the elevators he took small steps toward them, his leg loudly protesting the movement. He bit down hard on his lip.

"Son, please." the man sounded like he was about to break but Thomas didn't stop to question it. The elevators were so close. He saw one begin to open and without looking back at the man he threw himself into the open elevator immediately falling hard on his leg, he could hear running and almost cried in relief of the doors closing right before the cop could reach them.

Thomas was shaking on the floor of the elevator when the doors opened again. A woman stepped in barely even glancing down at him before she hit a button and the doors closed. When she turned around to look at him he pointed the gun at her, hoping she wouldn't notice how violently it was shaking. She took a step closer to him and knelt down in front of him. The gun came close to touching her head as she did this.

"I'm going to take a look at this leg, okay?" she said not really waiting for him to say anything before gently pulling the red soaked bandage off. "You opened your stitches, Stiles," she said in a tone that almost made him feel ashamed. He gripped the gun tighter in his hand. "How about you put that down Stiles, you know I'm not going to hurt you." he shook his head but his grip loosened enough for her to easily pull it from his hands.

"Who..." he started, his voice quivering and he forcefully swallowed the lump steadily rising in his throat.

"You've been through a lot of stiles. None of us really understand what you've been through yet, but Scott will be here soon and maybe he can help." she looked at him for a long minute before continuing. "It's okay, stiles. You're home now."

"Who's Scott?" he asked, remembering the name from earlier.

"Sweetie you've lost a lot of blood, nobody here is even sure how it's possible, you shouldn't even be conscious right now. No wonder you're so frightened." a sob broke in his throat and she sighed. "You need rest, Stiles. And you need to not rip open your stitches." she motioned to his leg.

"Why do you keep calling me Stiles?" he asked, another sob escaped him. Before she could answer, the elevator doors opened. The cop from his room was standing there and it was hard to miss the relief that flashed in his face. The woman helped Thomas to stand and between the three of them, they managed to get Thomas back to his room. They got him back into the bed and the woman began cleaning his leg up.

"Son." the cop was sitting in a chair by his bed. Thomas wiped furiously at his face. "Son, do you know who I am?" he said. Thomas looked at him and shook his head. The man looked down at his hands. "What's your name?" the cop sighed.

"Thomas," he whispered. The two exchanged a worried glance.

"Thomas." the cop repeated.

"Well Thomas, I'm Melissa and that is Sheriff Stilinski. I'm going need to stitch you up again soon, okay?" he nodded.

"Thomas," the name sounded uncomfortable for the sheriff to say, "son, do you remember anything?"

"I want to see my friends."

"Newt and Minho?" sheriff Stilinski asked. Thomas nodded.

"Do you know where they are? Are they okay?" Thomas sat up straighter. "Please, I need to see them, please."

"I'll see what I can find out still..." Thomas looked away and the cop broke off mid-word. He cleared his throat before continuing "Thomas."

"Thomas you can't rip your IV out this time. You're severely dehydrated and malnourished." Thomas just nodded at her and watched her sliding the needle under his skin. He felt something cold slide around his other wrist and he looked at the handcuffs now securing his wrist to the railing of the bed.

"No, No!" he started to pull away, feeling the cool metal against his skin.

"Listen Stiles it's for your own protection."

"No you don't understand." he kept pulling, feeling the metal biting into the already scarred flesh from the last time he'd been tied down. "No you can't do this, no no no." his voice was breaking and panic quickly turned into hysteria as he used both hands to pull against the handcuffs.

"No. no. get it off." he could hear Melissa trying to calm him down, he could hear the sheriff telling him it was just for now but all he could see were bloody ropes staining the white floor, all he could see was Newt on the other side of a window.

Thomas heard screaming but he couldn't tell if it was his own or memories of Newt. He pulled violently on his wrist. "You don't understand." his eyelids felt heavy and he looked over to Melissa who was adding something to his iv.

"No please." he slurred, recognizing the effects of sedatives, "please don't." but it was too late.

"You can't do this to me." he whimpered. Darkness drowning out his words.