He's gone. Stiles cannot believe that Derek is gone.
Derek has always pulled through. He's Derek.
The idea that Derek could possibly be dead is just-he doesn't even know what to describe it as.
Sure, they hadn't had the best relationship a lot of the time. But they were friends now, weren't they? Did it even matter anymore, if Derek was dead?
Of course, he didn't know for sure that Derek was dead. But there was a lot of blood and wolfsbane bullets and the building had collapsed from the fire, and no one had seen him in days.
Stiles doesn't like feeling like this. He doesn't like the panic that builds in him, the tightening in his chest. He cannot lose another person.
Derek has to be alive.
He's not sure at what point during his inner monologue he ends up pulling up to the Hale house, but he's suddenly aware that he's sitting in his jeep right outside it.
It doesn't take very long before he's made the decision to go inside.
His bedroom isn't quite what he expected. The sparseness of it aside, there is something not quite right about it. A stock bedroom devoid of personality. It's not really Derek.
The fact that the walls have been repaired but not painted doesn't help.
But the bed? The bed screams Derek Hale. The sheets are dark red and there's a black and red bedspread haphazardly pushed in a pile on one side. There are four pillows in cases that match the bedspread, but it's obvious by the size that he only uses the two on the right.
Stiles can feel a panic attack welling up in his chest and he collapses. He can tell the sheets are cheap and scratchy as soon as he hits the bed, but he doesn't care. He's struggling to stave off the attack before it starts and he's not even sure he wants to.
And then he sees it.
Between the pillows, a little furry object. A mouse? It's enough of a distraction to pull him away from thoughts of death.
He grabs it without thinking and pulls.
It's a stuffed wolf.
