Disclaimer: I do not own the show, Houdini & Doyle.

A/N: This is just a one-shot set at the end of Strigoi. Seeing as I am in the United States, I haven't had the opportunity to watch the next episode, so likely, by the time that episode comes out next week, this story will be debunked and become either a lost scene or AU. I just needed a little closure after the heartbreaking ending of this latest episode ;D

He should have known. He should've listened. He'd been worried about her, but he shoved it aside for the sake of a case. He had seen it in her eyes, the past few days, that she didn't want him to leave her alone. She didn't want him to run off with his new friends, chasing villains and vampires and vampire hunters. She told him she was afraid for him, afraid that he would leave her and never come back. That she would never see him again. He'd promised her that he would always be there.

But he wasn't.

She died alone.

She'd never see him again.

Harry sat there, numb, as he clutched her cold hand in his. The only warmth came from the hot tears burning his tired eyes. He'd almost died a few hours ago in his stupidity. He came home after being out all hours, smiling to himself that his mother would never know that he'd been buried alive. She might ask about the dusty dirt he'd missed along his hairline when he tried to wash up at Adelaide's before he came home or chide him for his stained and muddy clothes. He'd already thought up several lies to brush her off, ease her mind, assure her that he never let anything get the better of him.

Those lies fled him now as he tried to take a full breath. But breathing felt impossible. All he could manage were short, choked gasps. It was like he was suffocating, buried alive all over again. But this time, it was worse. It was so much worse. His heart constricted painfully, and his eyes lost focus as the tears welled higher. And finally, he broke down sobbing, muttering over and over again, "Ma, no. Please, no."

Hours. Was it hours? Or minutes? For all Harry could comprehend, it might have been days that he sat there beside the lifeless form of his beloved mother. But someone was knocking on the door, a voice calling to him, demanding his attention. He had none to spare. He was too weak to even weep anymore. All he could do was sit there, her hand still in his, his entire body sagged beneath the weight of an entire world of guilt.

"Houdini! Are you alright?"

Doyle. What the hell was Doyle doing here? He was part of the problem, part of the blame. He and his fantastic theories, driving Harry to prove him wrong, to show him logic.

The door handle shook, but it wasn't locked. Harry hadn't bothered to turn it. The door swung open and Doyle strode in, concern melting briefly from his face when he saw that Houdini wasn't murdered or injured. However, it did not take him but two seconds to realize that something worse was at hand.

"She's…" Harry couldn't bare to finish the sentence.

The doctor in Doyle immediately evaluated the case, approaching Harry's mother gently and touching his fingers to the place on her wrist where he might find a pulse. When he, as he expected, found none, he shook his head at Harry sorrowfully. "I am so sorry."

Somehow, the confirmation from a doctor only made it worse. Any senseless hope he'd been clinging to vanished. Harry gripped his mother's hand tighter, and pressed his lips, trying to restrain himself in front of Doyle. Doyle was a proper Englishman, always keeping his emotions in check. Even when his wife fell into a coma again, Doyle had kept himself "respectable" in public.

Without asking his permission, Doyle left to call for whoever it is you call when someone passes away. Harry hadn't ever really thought about that. Who do you call when someone dies naturally in their sleep? He'd avoided such questions, and now they were demanding answers. Perhaps he was grateful that Doyle took it upon himself to answer them; however, he couldn't help but be angry, because he did not want to only be angry at himself.

"I should have been here," Harry said when Doyle returned. "I should've…"

"There's nothing you could have done," Doyle said. He sat down in the chair opposite Harry. "She died in her sleep, peacefully. You can see it on her face, she was not in pain."

Harry's mask broke as tried to intake an entire breath, but it shuddered and broke until he covered his face with his free hand in the vain attempt to hide the tears from Doyle who himself was becoming distressed from the anguish he saw his friend suffering.

"If there is anything I can do, Houdini," Doyle said.

"It's the end!" Harry cried, "I'll never see her again, Doyle! And unless you can change that, there is absolutely nothing you can do." He said it so bitterly, so accusingly, it was almost satisfying. Almost. He also knew it was cruel.

When Doyle made no response, Harry realized what he was thinking. He could talk to the spirits with a psychic or some other ridiculous method. He shook his head. "Don't even think it, Doyle. Don't even try to convince me of some spirit world."

"I won't," Doyle assured him. "But don't be surprised if it convinces you itself."

Strangely, Harry found comfort in that.

Hope.

END

A/N: Should inspiration strike, I may add a short "part 2"; however, I'm sure the story will resolve itself in next week's episode. And if it doesn't, I will be very cross. And if it doesn't do so properly, I shall be even crosser still. So, either way, I may end up adding a part 2. Let me know what you think in the comments :)