{TW: Minimal Abuse and Violence}

Chapter Four- Bestfriends

Only a few remained to watch the small boy be lowered into the ground. Mud had gathered at their feet, caking on the sides of their shoes. No one seemed to mind, or rather, care. They watched with teary eyes as mud began to slide over the coffin, everyone taking a turn to bury him. It wasn't long until he was out of their sight, concealed within the deep, dark ground. Forever gone, forever lost to those who had deeply loved and cherished him.

Hamish woke with a start, his heart racing and roaring in his ears. It reminded him of what it felt like when he ran lots, or when he ran a race against his Daddy or Papa.

For a moments he was confused as to where he was, until the memories came rushing back. There wasn't much; other than being taken. There was a faint memory of a truck, and a large building, but those were unclear and fuzzy. But it wasn't long until his mind cleared…and registered the pain.

The sharp, twisting pain in his head, and the pinching, cruel pain in his wrists, as they had been harshly forced behind him.

Tears splashed his cheeks, and he tugged his knees to his chest and sobbed into them, his small mind not knowing what else to do. Long, screaming begs to go home passed his lips, followed by cries for his parents.

He couldn't see much; the room was too dark for his eyes to make out anything. There was a faint outline of a door, the light cascading underneath illuminating an icy cold, plain, tile floor.

After what felt like ages, there was a sound of voices. The small boy perked up, desperately calling out for help, begging to be let home.

There was a jingle of keys, and the lock turned.

The door swung open, bathing the room in light. Hamish shrank back, whimpering and blinking.

A man walked forwards, his body covered in a tightly fitted suit. His hair was slicked back, his hands clasped behind him. Hamish didn't know him, or recognize his face. He wouldn've known, because he was real good at remembering things. He looked like the bad guy from one of the books his Daddy would read him, the one he remembered with the eyes held that wicked glow. The same glow the man had now; the deep one that made you always know that something bad was coming soon.

"Why, good morning, sleepy head," The evil-looking man drawled, waking forward and kneeling in front of the shaking child. His hand gently reached out, brushing a few of the tears away. "Did your Daddy ever tell you about the Big Bad Wolf?"

The night was cold and dark. The rain had long but ceased, the stars in the sky spelling out constellations and echoing the sadness felt bellow. Bouquets of flowers covered the small grave, some already beginning to wilt and die. They were left there for a child, whose time had come to soon, and the small act of courage he gave.

Hamish leaned away from the knife that was far too close to his small, chubby arm for his liking. He had been forced on to a table and strapped down, screaming and sobbing loudly.

Mr. Moriarty, as he had introduced himself, stood in the corner, smiling as he watched. Tiger brought the knife down, and Hamish watched the silver, gleaming in the light, splash with blood as the sharp tip was pressed into his skin. Blood beaded up from around the knife and wound, trickling down to his wrist, and around his fingers.

At that point, Hamish was hysterical. His screams seemed to make Mr. Moriarty mad, because in the next moments, there was shouting, and crying, and Hamish was being forced back into the room where he had woken.

When the door was slammed shut once again, a small voice, one that didn't belong to Hamish, gave a small, "Daddy?" and was followed by Mr. Moriarty's voice. "Oh, sweetheart. Did we wake you?"

"Why was there screamin'?"

"Come on, Lex. I'll tuck you in."

Everything was quiet for a while, and Hamish managed to get himself to sleep, but was startled awake when the door opened again. He whimpered and frowned deeply when he realized it wasn't Mr. Moriarty or Tiger. It was a little boy.

He looked a little like Hamish, but was taller and looked younger. His hair was a snowy blonde, his eyes a deep brown and were filled with misunderstanding worry and sadness. "You were screamin'," He whispered, a free hand nervously clutching a raggedy, hole-infested blanket, the other fisted in his space themed pyjamas. "An' you got a big big owie."

Hamish closed his eyes and gave a small nod. He wanted his blanket and his pyjamas. But…they were at home. With his…"I want my Daddy and Papa," he whined.

The other boy looked hurt, clutching his blanket tighter, so it brushed against his flushed cheek. "I donno where dey are," he answered before swallowing and bravely taking a step inside. "Want me ta kiss your owie bedder? That's what ma Daddy does when I get an' owie."

The three-year old paused. His Daddy and Papa weren't there to kiss his owie better. But..it really, really hurt. And if he didn't…who was?

"Yeah," Hamish finally whispered.

Clutching his blanket close, the blonde boy took a few steps inside, appearing at Hamish's side. He bent, placing a kiss to the bleeding wound. His lips came away red, but he didn't seem to care. "Dhere. All bedder now."

A weak smile came to Hamish's lips. "Thank you…um.."|

"Alex."

"Thank you..Alex. I'm Hamish."

"Hi, Ha'ish."

"I'm three."

"I'm two an' a half. Daddy says in four mowe weeks I'm three."

"Wanna be my friend?"

"Yeah. I neber had a fwiend before."

A small tear drifted down the weeping child's face. A crystal tear, for the loss of a friend. The loss of a playmate, a brother, an angel…a piece of himself. Too young to understand, he clung to his father, sobbing into the silky fabric of his suit.

A/N: YAY! Finally done :) Sorry for the long wait, guys. Summer travels. And writing block. But don't worry, I'm working on the next two chapters right now and should be up within a few days.