AN: For the record, this is the SAD ending. And this is NOT the one I'm using to complete the story. It does, however, tie into the end of the movie.

This one took a lot out of me to write. Enjoy…?

-

It only took a matter of moments for Emory to locate the source of the screaming. She walked quickly around to the front hallway of the house, where the entry to the basement was.

But before she could even approach the door, it burst open, and a haggard Laurie Strode stumbled out into the hallway. Her eyes, wide with terror and shock, locked onto Emory and she let out a cry of relief.

Instantly, she was in Emory's arms, clinging to her like a frightened child. She was talking, but most of her words blurred together in a cacophony of sobs and whimpers. Emory wrapped her arms tightly around the younger woman and started making soothing noises, the kind she had always made to Damien when he was a baby.

She watched the doorway, waiting, comforting Bonnie. When Michael finally appeared at the top of the stairs, bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, knife clasped loosely in his hand, she met his eyes and frowned.

But what she saw there made her anger disappear instantly. She had never seen anyone with such sadness in their eyes. Such desperate loneliness.

"Tell her, Michael," she urged softly. "Tell her who she is."

Laurie gazed up at Emory with wide eyes, her breath coming in jagged gasps. She looked slowly over her shoulder, and as Michael's form came into view, she instantly started flailing, screaming, pleading. Emory wrapped her arms around the girl and held her tightly, comforting her, backing slowly away from Michael.

"Calm down, Laurie… Laurie!" She hissed. The younger girl paused at the urgency in Emory's voice. "He's not going to hurt you."

"You're… you're with him?" She whispered, horrified. Emory sighed. She looked up at Michael.

"Michael," she said softly, "please, tell her."

He moved forward, paused, and dropped down to his knees. His eyes closed briefly, and Emory sucked in an unsteady breath. He had lost a lot of blood. If he fainted now…

But then his eyes were open again, and he slowly pulled the picture out of his pocket. Laurie struggled weakly in Emory's grip, too overwhelmed by shock and betrayal to fight. Michael held the picture out to her, waiting patiently. Emory's heart cried out for him.

"I don't understand," Laurie whimpered. "What do you want from me? I don't understand." Now she was talking to Emory, pleading with her. "Please. I don't want to die."

"Laurie, I promise he's not going to hurt you." She saw the look in Laurie's eyes and added, "I'm not going to hurt you either."

"He killed Lynda," she whimpered.

"I'm sorry," Emory said softly. "I wasn't here to stop him."

Michael held the picture out again. Laurie flinched, but she reached out with a trembling hand and took the photo. While she looked at it, shaking her head in confusion, Emory met Michael's gaze. And she knew that he wasn't going to speak. He wouldn't be able to tell her. He thought she might be better off not knowing. He was giving Emory the choice.

Emory nodded.

"I don't understand," Laurie whispered, edging slightly back from Michael's intimidating presence.

Emory sighed.

"That's Michael, in that picture," she said softly. "And the little girl he's holding… that's you."

She was silent for a few moments, absorbing this information.

"I don't have a brother," she whispered, voice trembling. Emory closed her eyes. At that moment, she hated Laurie Strode for the pain she knew the girl was causing Michael.

"You were adopted by Mason and Cynthia Strode when you were two," Emory said through gritted teeth.

"What?" Laurie's voice was less than a whisper now. She was looking dangerously pale. Her eyelids fluttered.

"Michael killed his abusive stepfather and older sister, Laurie." Emory said slowly, "so that you wouldn't have to grow up like he did."

And just like that, like someone had flipped a switch, Laurie's eyes rolled up into the back of her head and she fainted.

Emory caught her before she hit the floor, easing her to the ground. Then she stood up and looked at Michael. He was still on his knees. In slow, jerking movements, he dropped the knife and looked up at her. Never in her life had she seen anyone look so sad and lost.

What now? He was asking her. What do I do now?

Without thinking, Emory moved forward and pulled him tightly against her. He responded reflexively, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his face into her abdomen. His breathing was more shallow than normal, but his grip on her was unyielding.

And Emory knew at that moment, as she watched him close his eyes and felt the tension in his body slowly disappear, that she loved him more than anything else in the entire world.

Tears burned in her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away.

"You're going to need stitches." She said in a quiet voice, glancing down at the stab wound in his shoulder. It was deep, and still wept blood, though slowly. She was amazed. How was he still conscious?

He didn't move.

Emory leaned down and brushed her lips over his forehead. She wanted to tell him so bad her heart ached. But she couldn't. Not yet.

Instead she said, "Michael, we have to go."

He nodded, just a miniscule movement, just enough to show his agreement.

"It's not your fault," she whispered. "You did what was best for her at your own expense. She'll be okay." Emory smiled down at him. "She's strong. Like her brother."

Michael lifted his head, looked up into her eyes. His lips parted. Emory's heart stopped. He was… he was going to talk…

She heard movement behind her. Laurie had woken up. It didn't matter, all that mattered was Michael.

And then…

White hot…

Searing….

Screaming…

PAIN.

Her mind exploded with it, her vision shattered. Something was wrong. Oh, God, something was wrong. There was something – in her back, something that burned and twisted agony into her very existence. And then it was gone.

The butcher's knife clattered to the floor.

"No," said a voice, rough and deep and filled with despair. A plea.

It was Michael.

Emory fell to her knees in front of him, felt his arms wrap around her for support. There was movement, a flash of it, and Emory glanced over to see Laurie running out of the house. There was blood on Laurie's hands. Michael's blood. And now, Emory's blood.

There was blood in Emory's left lung. The knife had gone straight between her ribs. She would probably pass out soon, from shock and pain.

"Michael," she breathed, leaning into him. It was all she had the strength to say. Every breath wracked her with seething, rippling pain. Her limbs were numb. She was going into shock. Her vision was fading. The blade must have hit something important. She tasted blood in her mouth, like iron shavings, and a dull, throbbing ache in her chest.

She was bleeding internally.

Oddly enough, the realization didn't shock her. It was really more of an acknowledgement. Yes, she was bleeding internally, and that blade had probably nicked her heart, and maybe some of her internal organs. It had certainly cut straight through her lung.

"Emory," he growled, pulling her closer against him. The sudden movement sent pain lancing through her body, and she let out a ragged gasp. But he didn't let her go. She looked up, met his ice blue gaze, and somehow, despite the pain, despite the growing feeling of weightlessness, she managed to smile.

"I love you, Michael. Did you know that?" She whispered. Her eyesight was beginning to fade, darkness creeping around the edges of her vision.

His lips curved into a gentle, desperately amused smile.

Time seemed to stand still.

Then he leaned down, and brushed his lips over hers.

"Yes, Emory," he said softly.

Good. That was all that really mattered. So long as he knew… Emory blinked, trying to keep her eyes focused. But her pulse was beginning to slow. Her body was shutting down. The pain wasn't as bad now. It was fading with her heartbeat.

She tilted her head back and pressed her lips to his.

And then she felt her muscles begin to relax. She wasn't ready to let go of him, but her body wouldn't respond to her commands. She went limp, and numb, and only vaguely felt Michael lay her gently on the floor. She was cold again. She hated being cold.

His fingertips ghosted over her skin, across her lips, over her eyelids. He was shaking.

"I love you," he whispered.

-

He knew the instant it happened. She went completely still. Her breath sighed from her lips, tickling his cheek, and then she just didn't take another one. Michael stared down at her, at the circle of blood spreading beneath her. She was pale and silent.

She was dead.

Michael sat back, gazing at her, unblinking. As if he could will her back. As if… if he just watched long enough, she'd take another breath.

She didn't take another breath.

She was dead.

He was shaking. His thoughts were coming back to him, now. He let his gaze slide away from her, following the pool of blood along the floor in the darkness, until it came to rest on the knife.

The knife. Bonnie. Memories began to flicker through his head: the faint glint of light on razor sharp steel, the look of sudden, intense pain in Emory's eyes. A dark figure darting towards the front door.

Bonnie.

Instantly, Michael was on his feet, and the knife was in his hand. Fury hummed in his mind, as if alive, and adrenaline pulsed through him, electrifying his nerves. The handle of the knife was slick with Emory's blood. Michael felt a snarl curl his lips.

He walked with quick, confident steps, around the body of his only love and out into the cold, empty winter air. Somewhere nearby, Bonnie was screaming hysterically, crying, begging for someone to help her. Michael pulled the old, rotting rubber mask from his pocket and shoved it down over his head. His palm tingled where it touched the handle of his knife. Beneath that mask, his expression was blank and cold.

She was dead.