Summary: This chapter is one of several "last straws."

Warnings: Graphic sex and violence.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Being Human, but I watched a ton of behind the scenes clips on YouTube this week.

When Mitchell Did Those Twins

Mitchell gradually migrates north after Josie leaves him. On his way to no specific destination, a few young vampires dig him out and latch on. They follow him without admitting as much.

One night, Mitchell catches Charlie laying it on thick with a girl outside the bathroom of a shady alehouse. He gives her a cursory glance and deems that she must be just a teenager. She doesn't have a purse and clutches a pair of heels in one hand, clearly playing at being older than she is.

Mitchell struts over to the pair and throws his arm around Charlie's shoulders. He says something meaningless and goofy and steers Charlie back toward the bar.

Then he laughs. "I didn't know you liked them younger."

"I'm sixty-seven. They're all younger." Charlie looks mildly disgruntled by the interruption.

Mitchell grins and sticks his tongue between his teeth. "Fair," he says, "but you don't want that one, mate. She's too young. She'll be missed."

Charlie eyes him skeptically. Mitchell waves down the bartender. His smile is disarming. Under his breath, he adds, "now, you see the one in the red cardigan with the three empty glasses?" He keeps his eyes on Charlie while he scans the room, and smiles deviously when he sees recognition on his friend's face. "She's come alone for the night. She might be the action you're looking for."

Charlie chuckles. Mitchell gives him a wink and a pat on the back and sets him loose.

His hundredth birthday approaches quickly. One rainy summer morning in a small town south of Glasgow, Mitchell comes home late, so late it's almost early. He nudges the door softly to avoid waking his three flatmates. He needn't have bothered, it turns out; after a split second he discovers all the lights in the house blazing, and throws the door the rest of the way open.

His housemates are scattered about the room, wide awake and enjoying various brands of beer. Herrick sits among them, smiling and talking animatedly, clutching a mug of tea. Mitchell's jaw drops. He feels his face twist reflexively in shock and disgust, then shakes his head and tries to hide his initial horror.

Herrick sees him first and calls his name brightly. There's a familiar, unreadable glint in his eyes as they look Mitchell up and down. His flatmates join in a welcoming chorus.

"Come and have a seat with us! I was just telling some lovely stories about you!" Herrick pats the empty cushion next to him on the couch.

"I'm-what are you doing here?" Mitchell asks. His eyes dart between his friends, who all seem perfectly relaxed. They are also drunk enough not to call him on his rudeness.

Herrick chuckles and says something extremely mundane about missing him and not wanting to miss a good party.

A shaky breath hisses between Mitchell's teeth.

"I'm so glad you've made such excellent friends!" Herrick adds, leering. He raises his mug and said friends respond with their bottles. "Haven't spent time with our Scottish brethren in ages. Did you recruit them yourself?"

Mitchell's eyelids flutter and he clenches his teeth. "Of course not," he manages. The thought of biting any of these boys makes his stomach turn.

Mitchell gets no help from his flatmates, who think Herrick is a delight and don't notice the tension flooding the room. For now, he takes the seat next to his old friend on the couch, carefully avoiding any physical contact. Herrick finishes two more stories, both of which make Mitchell feel like he is swallowing ice, before the others trickle off to bedrooms and leave them alone together.

Mitchell adopts a keen interest in the chipped button on his left sleeve. He pretends not to notice when he feels Herrick shift beside him.

"We were all hurt when you left, you know."

Mitchell scoffs.

"I've missed you," Herrick continues softly, dripping with sincerity and concern. "Did you hate us that much? After all I did for you?"

Mitchell's stomach tingles with a confusing combination of revulsion and guilt. He can't close his eyes against the great debt he owes this man. "I didn't-it wasn't you. It was the things. The things we did."

"We?"

Mitchell squints. "The things I did," he corrects. "I couldn't, anymore, not ... they were ..." vile, he thinks.

"The only bad thing you did was run," Herrick says flatly. "But I'm a forgiving man. You mean so much to me, Mitchell, and you're such a good boy. I might be able to give you a second chance."

Of course he should never have left, that's only made everything worse. Shame settles over his shoulders. Mitchell never could take care of himself. He would have been caught and executed in days if it hadn't been for Herrick teaching him how to survive. Then he needed Josie to hold his hand for almost five years-five years he wasted trying to be something he wasn't; five years of self-delusion. His shame intensifies when the wish crosses his mind for someone to take care of him again. He wishes for someone to make all the decisions for him.

He thinks of his flatmates. Mitchell has been the decision-maker in the house for almost a year, and he's corrupted them beyond recognition. They know all the best ways to manipulate a woman and to fight other vampires and to hide a body, all thanks to Mitchell.

"I'm telling you," he hears himself say, "I can't do good things."

Herrick hums contemplatively. "Let me help you."

The next morning, they sit side-by-side at a rickety kitchen table. Herrick digs into sausage and a finely-crafted cheese omelette while Mitchell nurses a cup of black coffee. For many minutes, the only sounds are the clatter of silverware and Mitchell's foot tapping as it goes haywire under the table.

"We should celebrate. For old times' sake." Herrick rests a hand on his thigh, fingernails curling into the inseam of his jeans. Mitchell's body goes stiff and his breath hitches.

"I'm turning a hundred years old," he replies, acutely aware of the sound of his voice. He shows his teeth in what hopefully resembles a smile. "I've got to-I'm gonna try something new."

He pointedly keeps his eyes away from his lap, where Herrick's fingers tighten briefly before disappearing. Mitchell lets out a puff of air.

"Well, we're not going to find any parties in this old hovel," he says, returning to his omelette. "I think I've got a plan for you."

Mitchell has actually never flown into Dublin. The last time he saw Ireland, it didn't have a commercial airport. Herrick mentions something about family, but those kinds of thoughts have never crossed Mitchell's mind before, and he doesn't let them do so now.

Herrick checks them into an expensive hotel suite and starts buying drinks before five. The street is lined with pubs and lounges. They don't skip any.

Herrick seems to think every bar has at least one potential bedmate. He tries to push several ladies, and a few men, of above-average looks onto Mitchell over the course of the evening. It takes hours for the alcohol to kick into Mitchell's system, and even then his judgment doesn't wane until after ten. He openly flirts with a blond who looks his age, but after a terse glance at Herrick he excuses himself and ducks into a corner booth.

Herrick slides next to him and points out a tall brunette ordering a drink across the room. Mitchell doesn't look up. That is when an identically tall brunette saunters up to her sister with a cocktail. Herrick lets out a low whistle. "Now you really can't turn that down."

Mitchell presses the heel of his hand to his temple and follows his gaze. Something jumps in his throat. He fishes for another denial, but Herrick is already threading his way through the crowd.

"Pardon me," he says as he sidles next to the women. "I don't mean to be forward, but my friend over there-he's shy, but he seems to have taken a shining to you."

They make for an impressive threesome, panting and writhing and mussing up the clean hotel sheets.

The girls aren't identical; one has a sprinkling of freckles and the other has huge, full lips which Mitchell puts to good use. He wraps his legs around her shoulders and while she's preoccupied, sinks his teeth under her sister's ear.

He smiles and thinks he might drown here. The girl's faintly gurgled moans send vibrations through his lips, heating his senses. She scrabbles feebly at his shoulders and emits low sounds of protest or lust.

He grunts and loses himself in a mouthful of scalding blood. Every end of him thrills with overwrought sensation. He runs frantic hands over her body as if he could soak up her liquid passion through his pores.

Mitchell can feel the sister's pulse in her very lips as they work his arousal. The edges of his vision grow dark. He gasps in the heady aroma of mingling life and death. His body jerks with release, and his teeth dig trenches across the victim's collarbone.

He wails, a low, wet, inhuman sound, and lets the body slump onto the pillows beside him. The sister looks up from between his legs. She smiles lasciviously and licks her lips. Her pupils, already wide with lust, blow to comical proportions as she takes in the sight of her sister and the blood painted from Mitchell's eyebrows to his heaving chest.

The emotions read plainly on her face; it shutters from lewd to bewildered to horrified, and watching the show unhinges him. Mitchell throws his head back and howls with a sound that can only be wicked laughter. His cheeks ache from a deranged smile.

She screams. He laughs harder at the cliche.

Mitchell clambers off the bed and stumbles woozily to his hands and knees. Something roars and pounds to get out from behind his eyes as they try and fail to adjust to the light. The room teeters. He feels like he's skidding across the floor.

"Good morning, sunshine!"

Mitchell whines at the sound of Herrick's voice. He turns his head to look around the room and promptly falls forward onto his elbows. Gently, he eases his forehead down until it rests on the carpet. The smell of blood and musk fills his nostrils. "No," he moans softly, stifling waves of nausea.

"I really thought you could hold your blood better than this, dear. We'll have to get you back in shape, after all."

Mitchell growls at that. He scratches at the upholstery of the nearest chair and tries to pull himself up. Dizzy, he glances at Herrick out of the corner of his eye.

"Room service brought breakfast," Herrick goes on cheerily while Mitchell drags most of his body onto the houndstooth cushions. "Hm ... coffee, toast, sausage and ham and bacon. Eggs are a bit soggy-"

Mitchell pitches forward over the arm of the chair and vomits.

"... You're lucky you clean up well."

Mitchell's ears begin to ring. Breathing harsh and heavy, he raises his eyes in a glower that would stop a living man's heart. He heaves himself from the chair, holding his head in one hand and throwing out the other for balance.

Herrick quirks an eyebrow but says nothing. This is when Mitchell realizes he is still naked, and he has to clutch an arm around himself to hold in his heaving stomach. "How long have you been here?" he wheezes, and Herrick smirks.

Mitchell pants shakily but there is no fresh air, only flesh and ash and shame. His eyes drift over the matching dead girls draped over the king-sized bed. They both look utterly peaceful, and he is overcome with indefinable longing.

Herrick starts talking again, but Mitchell doesn't listen. He clumsily pulls on a pair of boxers, then struggles for several minutes with pants before giving up and wrapping himself in a towel.

"I'm done," he rasps, and Herrick trails off into silence.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm done. I'm out."

They look at each other long and hard. Herrick stands up and Mitchell flinches with such violence he almost falls over again. That brings a sneer to Herrick's lips.

Adrenaline urges him to escape. Moving backwards and sideways and trying to keep Herrick in his line of sight, Mitchell staggers into the front room of the suite. His bloody hand slips and trembles on the doorknob.

Herrick has followed him, stalked him, leering and shaking his head.

They hold eye contact for long, despairing seconds. Mitchell can no longer muster a glare. He quavers behind stray locks of hair, greasy with fluids he doesn't want to think about. "I'm done," Mitchell repeats, his voice cracking. He wishes he could find more words in his reeling head.

Herrick bares his teeth in an unhappy smile. "You'll be back."

"I won't," he answers, too fast.

"You need it."

Mitchell finally gains purchase on the doorknob and wrenches it open. He chokes. "I'm not like-I don't need blood, I don't need you and I don't need ... that!" he gestures desperately into the bedroom.

"Happy birthday, John Mitchell!" he hears before the door slams shut behind him.

xXx

Author's note: This chapter fought and bit and kicked and screamed the whole way out, and it's still not convincing me. I didn't even know it existed, but I knew something very memorable had to point Mitchell toward sobriety. And Seth did mention twins. I would also like to say, fuck you, Mitchell, for having a heap of emotions that neither of us knows what to do with.

P.S. I have plans for the weekend, so it will be longer before the next update. Most of that chapter is written though, I THINK. *fingers crossed*