It was the chirping of birds that Stiles heard first as he slowly regained consciousness. The muddy ground he lay on was the next thing he noticed, as well as the dull ache in his body. Frowning, Stiles opened his eyes, lifting his head cautiously. The movement didn't hurt his head too much, so he continued to sit up. He was sitting alone in the preservation, his backpack beside him, with his laptop tucked inside, and Deaton's box of things open in front of him. Memories washed back over him, both of his mad trek through the preservation, and the events that lead to him trying to leave Beacon Hills behind. Stiles closed his eyes in pain at the fresh memories, a few tears rolling down his cheeks, before he heaved a great sigh and glanced at his watch. By his estimate he must have been unconscious for a few hours, at least three, and he had no hope of getting to the next town before dark.

Having no intention of actually being eaten by a mountain lion (although the irony appealed to Stiles' tattered mind), Stiles knew that he would have to turn back towards Beacon Hills. The only problem was that he wasn't entirely sure which direction that was in. He knew that he had lost the track that went north, and he didn't have his phone with him to find out where he was using one of his apps.

Stiles was lost in the woods. He huffed to himself as he imagined the look on Derek's face if he could see Stiles right now, the eye roll and the look that clearly was asking how on earth Stiles was the second smartest person in his year level. The look on his dad's face would be even worse, the look of disappointment, frustration and concern that Stiles knew well.

Moving slowly, Stiles resealed the box containing Deaton's things, and put it back into his backpack. The clothes he was wearing had mostly dried out, and a glance at the sky told him that the bad weather was clearing, large patches of pale blue sky being visible through the canopy of the trees. Putting his backpack on, Stiles got to his feet, his head a little clearer after a few hours of nightmare free sleep...or unconsciousness, whatever it was.

Now that he was on his feet though, Stiles was faced with the dilemma of which way to go in. His body was still a little battered and bruised from his fall, so he knew that trying to climb up the steep hill he'd fallen down wouldn't be the wisest of ideas. Besides, the ground would probably be wet and slippery still, so chances were that he would slip and fall again, this time doing more damage that breaking a couple of jars...like breaking his neck.

Stiles instead looked in the opposite direction, where the ravine he was in continued onwards, running downhill. With a bit of luck, Stiles might encounter a trail or the road into Beacon Hills and be able to work his way back to the Hale house from there and try again tomorrow. Hitching his back up onto his shoulders a little better, wincing slightly as the movement jostled his sore shoulder, Stiles set off, following along the ravine and hoping that the Necromancer's presence had been enough to send the mountain lions running into the deepest, highest reaches of the preservation.

TW

Stiles had walked for hours before he came across one of the jogging tracks that crisscrossed the public areas of the preservation, and he followed it until he found a marker where the path he was on intersected another path. Fortunately Stiles knew the preserve well enough to now know exactly where he was.

Now that he had his bearings, Stiles changed direction, walking along the jogging paths until he reached the point where the jogging paths went the closest to the unmarked border with the Hale family property. Stiles deviated off the path, heading uphill, towards the Hale property, ignoring the burning pain in his legs from the miles he had walked that day.

He had only been off the path for about ten minutes when Stiles heard footsteps approaching. He stiffened, glancing around, a year of knowing about the supernatural and generally fighting for his life making him jumpy and nervous.

Scanning the trees, Stiles looked for the source of the footsteps, knowing that if it was a supernatural creature they would easily hear how his heart rate had accelerated. A thought began at the back of his head, his mind, free of the adderal that helped him focus, caught the thought and raced with it. What it if was the Necromancer...what if Scott and Kira hadn't been successful in killing it? What if it had simply been waiting for Stiles to leave the Hale house, and was now moving in to kill the last surviving member of the pack.

What if it was Cora, driven mad by the grief of losing her brother and coming to take her revenge on the one who had been with Derek as he died, being Stiles himself? Stiles wouldn't stand a chance against a werewolf, sleep deprived and malnourished as he was.

What if it was the lynch mob of angry citizens of Beacon Hills who had made the connection between everything that had happened in town and Stiles...all of the parents of the kids that died in the bombing of the school that was supposed to take out the entire pack? Stiles knew he wouldn't be able to bring himself to defend himself from those who had lost their children in the bombing, or who had lost loved ones because of the supernatural in Beacon Hills.

It was all, after all, Stiles' fault. He'd been the one who started everything the night he dragged Scott out to look for a body in the woods. Everything that had happened since then...the hunters...the Kanima, the Alpha Pack, the Nemeton, the Nogitsune...the Necromancer...it all arched back to that night.

"Who are you?" a eerily familiar voice snapped from behind Stiles, and Stiles whipped around so fast his neck cracked, his jaw dropping as he took in the person standing there, glaring at him.

Derek Hale had his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, looking up and down at Stiles, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Derek...Derek it's me. Stiles...Stiles Stilinski," Stiles offered, wondering why on earth Derek didn't look to recognise him. Maybe he'd somehow managed to get himself brought back from the dead...which was curious in itself, since he obviously managed to do it without Lydia (who had already been dead when Derek died), and in only just over a week. Peter had taken a lot longer to finally get resurrected. Maybe Derek had rushed the process and that's why his memories were off.

Derek flinched in recognition when Stiles told him his name, and Stiles smiled, pleased to get some sort of reaction, even if it wasn't an overly positive one.

"That's not possible," Derek said, shaking his head and glaring even harder at Stiles, his eyes flashing blue slightly. Stiles bit his lip, recognizing the signs of Derek's rising anger.

"Stiles Stilinski is dead," Derek added, and Stiles caught the slight grief in the older man's voice at the sentence, as if it had physically hurt Derek to say it. It took a moment for what Derek actually said to sink in, and Stiles shook his head, his jaw dropping open.

"What?" he exclaimed in shock, reflexively rubbing the back of his head like he did when he was thrown off balance by something.

"Stiles Stilinski died saving me and my family from a house fire, seven years ago." Derek clarified, although he was still glaring at Stiles, daring him to take another step closer. Stiles, instead, took a step back, completely unable to think of anything to say, for one of the first times of his entire life.

"This is private property," Derek said, turning his back and walking away from Stiles "get out, and I won't call the cops and get you arrested for trespassing, and I'll know if you hang around here."

Stiles watched, his mouth still hanging open, as Derek walked away, disappearing over a rise. Stiles knew Derek well enough to know when the werewolf was being serious, and the look on the older man's face, as well as the sound in his voice, had told Stiles that the werewolf was serious, and that Stiles better go or risk bodily harm.

Turning on his feet, Stiles walked briskly back towards the public area of the preservation, knowing that risking going to the Hale house was simply not going to be an option.

He'd have to come up with another place to go to and figure out what the hell was going on.