Grimm Tidings

by KaseyBeth

Your whole life you're told to be normal, play normal, ACT NORMAL; truth is, its hard to act normal when your pretty certain you are slowly but surely going crazy... because honestly, being picked up by the police, is not how Nick had planned to start his day. What if Nick was raised by Monroe and Rosalee? What if he grew up like Truble? Minor cursing.

2. Humpty Dumpty Sat On A Wall

Hey Grimmers!
Please for the love of all that is holy on this Earth- DON"T KILL ME! Obviously, I am not a reliable updater- I AM SO SORRY! A MILLION TIMES SORRY! I had severe writer's block, and I had to force myself to sit down and puke out a beginning, which led to another idea, then another, and now… I'm here. Nick sounds EXTREMELY insane in here and yes, I planned it that way, but I promise I have a reason for EVERYTHING in here! And I think you'll like it- if not, pretend you do anyway! JK.

I'm still writing Teenwolf, and some others (I won't say which ones this time because I need to finish them). Also, I have been trying for 3 years to start OUAT again…. I need to re-watch the Hook/ Baelfire scenes again. Okay, let me know what you think. I won't always have a random rant at the beginning of each chapter- you're welcome. And my roomies didn't proofread this, so DON"T SHOOT ME! Okay? *nervous laughing turning into sobbing*

Later Loves!
-KB

…

Last night, I sang to the monster.

….

A week later, when he was questioned about the destruction of the school's chemistry building, Nick would shrug and state that everything that had happened to him was either, pure coincidence, or to put it moderately- inescapably bad luck. In truth, he had no idea how it happened. The Portland newspapers had puked out melodramatic propaganda that dripped with their own versions, which spun anywhere from a gas leak to a masked vigilante leaving the blazing scene. But… if Nick was completely honest with himself, he had no recollection of that whole night. None; nothing. He remembered waking up on one of the benches outside of the school; his face blackened from smoke and his head swimming with intoxicated questions he couldn't find answers to.

"We're going to try this one more time Nicholas," the bald man sitting in front of him said. Nick shifted in his seat. He had been cramped inside this tiny office for over an hour now trying his best to convince whomever that he had no idea how the fire started. He cracked his knuckles feeling tension building. Why didn't he believe him? He wasn't a bad kid! The bald man sat cross-legged behind a desk that looked expensive. Papers and charts scattered his desk in an organized fashion; a small nameplate rested lazily at the foot of his desk, Mr. Hamble. Nick shivered slightly. Mr. Hamble's office was decorated vigorously with youthful memorabilia, which Nick assumed, was a desperate attempt to relive his "glory days". He had no photos in his office that looked less than 20 years old, and the only lively thing was a cactus that sat quietly in the corner, on the brink of death. How fitting. His attire was as mind-numbingly ancient as the walls around him. Nick turned to look at a photo nailed on the wall. It was a black and white photograph of two young boys dressed in finely pressed suits, standing outside a building that read, "Homer's Finest Burgers; est. 1964." He'd have to look for that later.

Mr. Hamble cleared his throat, "If you didn't start the fire, then why were you seen leaving the school around 2:30am Wednesday morning?" Nick shrugged. He could hear Renard and Monroe talking quietly outside. He had already been through this with both of them, the school principle, a doctor and now, a therapist. You still don't know you stupid kid! He bit the bottom of his lip and took a deep breath, "Like I said, I don't remember." Mr. Hamble tapped his pen against the desk a few times before writing something down on a yellow piece of paper. He glanced back up at Nick a moment later and said, "I was told you were kicked out of one of your previous schools due to arson. Is that true?" Nick felt his heart skip a beat. No. No, it wasn't true. It didn't happen like that! "Yes," he said quietly, shifting again in his chair and looking down at the shirt Rosalee had given him. It was ancient Applejack's shirt from the back of Monroe's closet; the green had begun to fade to yellow, and the fabric seemed to swallow Nick's slender frame.

"So, you admit you had started the fire in your previous school?" Mr. Hamble questioned slowly. Nick looked up again, staring into the face of the man before him. He looked old and timeworn like someone's grandfather. The wrinkles and crevices that sat on his face told the story of a wise man but the comb over, or at least the one single strand of hair that was deemed a comb over, told the story of a desperate man.

"Yes." Nick said. No.

"Why did you start that fire?"

"Stress from finals." Nick said gently; a small smile toyed with his lips. If he had said that with Renard here, he would have gotten smacked on the back of the head. Mr. Hamble didn't look amused, "Nicholas." He pressed.

Nick swallowed, "I was on a bunch of medications. I was convinced I was seeing monsters." They were monsters you stupid kid. You stupid Grimm! GRIMM!

"And you wanted to get rid of them by burning down the school?"

Nick ran a hand through his hair. No, he was convinced he had been seeing monsters but he didn't start that fire. He had tried to stop it. The things he was seeing, the monsters he was seeing- they had tried to start it. "Yes." He nodded.

"Then you see then why the school wants to press blame on you, right?"

Nick nodded again. He was an easy target with a reputation.

"I'm going to have a word with the officer and your guardian outside, then talk with the principle to see about allowing you back on campus. In the meantime Nicholas, I'd like to see you at least once a week until we get to the bottom of this. Is that clear?"

Nick clenched his fists slightly before relaxing his whole body. At least he isn't prescribing you medication like the last few therapists. "Yes sir," he said quietly.

….

He laid there, fully clothed and soaking wet. The rain had been beating down outside for 2 weeks now and somehow Nick saw this fitting considering that had been how long he had been here. He could hear the soft scrapes from the trees outside as they met the small window in his bedroom. He stared at the ceiling above him watching the lights from the cars. It was quiet except for the trees and the old fan that creaked gently. He shivered. Damn. He was cold but he couldn't bring himself to change out of his clothes. It was too much effort.

He turned to glance at the small clock on the bedside table. It was 3:23 in the morning. He had school in a few hours and like most nights; he had been unable to sleep. He knew in the morning he would get a lecture from either Monroe or Rosalee about not coming home until around 1 in the morning. He had gotten caught up inspecting the burned down chemistry building, against Renard's wishes, and had lost track of time. On top of that, he hadn't said a word about that night except when asked, and he hadn't apologized to Monroe and Rosalee for dragging them to the hospital at 5 o'clock in the morning. He turned back towards the picture show above him, listening to the silence. In this moment, laying in the dark all alone, he missed his Aunt the most. He would lay in bed at night and listen to the soft tinkering of her in the other room; listening to the soft clicking of something metallic and wondering, with his 9-year-old mind, what it was. Although he had spent many nights troubling over what she was doing, he had also found it comforting. This was something he hadn't realized until she was already gone.

He felt his breathing hitch slightly at the thought of watching his Aunt die. It had been torment because she was the only one he had; she was the only one who had cared about him. Watching her die, watching her murdered, it had been the worst day of his life, and something he tried very hard to forget. He grasped once more at the necklace around his neck. Nick swallowed hard and glanced at the clock again feeling tears threatening to escape. He wasn't going to cry; his Aunt wouldn't like that. He felt anger surge through him and sat up quickly, wiping his eyes and taking a deep breath. He ran a shaky hand through his damp hair and kicked his muddy sneakers off. He stood up and steadied himself against the desk across from the bed. It had been a while since he had eaten a full meal, and even longer since he had been able to sleep properly. He yawned softly and stretched, touching the fan above him. His body still aching from the event's from earlier that week.

Nick walked over to the small window and looked down at the empty street. People, animals and monsters rested gently in their homes while he was unable to find his. Rain washed down the windows and dripped from the tree outside. He shivered again and shrugged his jacket off gently. Even without this extra piece of clothing, he was still drenched. His hair hadn't fully dried yet and his black shirt still clung to his skin. He walked back over to his desk and sat down; flipping through his sketchbook, he grabbed a pencil and opened to a blank page. He stared at it for a few seconds before dropping his pencil and leaning back in his chair.

He looked down at his book bag on the floor. A small smirk spread across his face as he continued to stare at it. It had been Monroe's when he went to Brown, and he liked to describe it as "an old gal who's been through an academic rollercoaster". The bag was red and simple, among other things. There was a small tear in the side that was held together by an even smaller piece of silver duct tape. Eddie Monroe was scribbled inside on one of the pockets in messy unorganized handwriting. All-in-all, it was a sham of a bag, but for some reason, Nick liked it. It had managed to survive what looked like some difficult and uncertain times; it had character. And it was his to keep if he wanted it. None of his previous foster homes had ever given him anything… except a few bruises and scars… and nightmares.

He shivered again and looked down at the bandages that were wrapped loosely around his left wrist and forearm. He grabbed the edge of the gauze and unwound it until his bare skin was exposed. Peeling red skin, small blisters and even smaller cuts were still visible even in the dim light that filled the tiny room. He scratched at the skin gently and winced. It still hurt. He sighed, leaning his head on the back of the chair and spun around a few times. The spinning stopped a few minutes later when his right foot caught the desk. He tilted his head slightly left and stared at the old room. It'd been years since he had a room of his own; years since he had a bed of his own. Old photographs clung to the wall, along with numerous clocks. This was one of the continuous themes throughout the house that Nick had noticed. He glanced back at the window watching the rain melt down the glass and feeling his eyelids beginning to grow heavy.

….

He was coughing, choking- he wasn't breathing. The air in his lungs was strangled from him and he couldn't breathe. His eyes flew open and the world around him spun viciously. He couldn't breathe; oh god, he was going to fucking die! He sat up quickly, losing his balance and meeting the mushy earth that lay underneath him. He sucked in a ragged breath, coughing roughly and sucked in another raw breath. Dirt, water and God only knows how many germs were riding in the air he was breathing, but holy hell he could finally breathe. He laid there for a while, breathing in the sweet oxygen and coughing it back out; allowing the wet ground to seep through his shirt, and coat his aching body. He wasn't sure how much time had passed. He wasn't even sure what time it was, let alone what day it was.

He groaned loudly as he meshed his hands against the muddy ground and shakily forced himself into a semi-sitting position. He leaned his back against the table behind him and ran a hand through his hair, taking in his surroundings. It was early dawn. The evidence of night still stood proudly in the sky but streaks of light had begun to spring from the horizon joyfully. He absentmindedly ran his fingers through the grass, allowing his fingers to soak in the wet dew that clung to the blades.

He blinked and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve trying to clear his mind. Where the hell was he? What happened? He was facing the woods; the tall trees that lay before him rustled slightly as the wind picked up. He shivered and looked down at his hands, realizing for the first time, that they hurt. Nick stared at them for a while trying his best to see through the shadowy darkness. It took him a moment to realize they were bloody. No, they were covered in blood. He panicked. He felt around his shirt, looking for any sign of injury, any sign of blood. Nothing. The fabric was covered in small holes, dirt and burn marks but no blood. He felt his body grow cold and found he was suffocating again. Whose blood was this then? If he wasn't covered in his blood then whose blood was he wearing? He grabbed the table behind him and forced himself up slowly, feeling the world beginning to spin around him. He took a deep breath and- screaming, he heard screaming, yelling, someone was yelling!

Nick turned around quickly, too quickly. He dropped to his knees as the world began to crumble around him. He retched loudly as the universe continued to spin, and began coughing again as he tried to focus on the scene before him. He finished and wiped his mouth with the edge of his sleeve and closed his eyes for a moment. You're okay. You're okay! You're okay? The thought bounced around in his mind; turning more into a question than a statement with each passing second. He opened his eyes, took a shallow breath and forced himself up again, grabbing the table for rooted support. It took him a moment to realize what he was looking at. He was standing on a field surrounded by trees and something that made Nick go numb. The blood in his veins turned to ice and suddenly the question of whose blood he had on his hands seemed unimportant. He was staring at a school. His school. On fire. His school was on fire. HIS SCHOOL WAS ON FUCKING FIRE.

He felt his body moving towards the school while his mind stayed still. He couldn't think. What happened? Why was the school on fire? Who the fuck was screaming? Why was he walking towards a burning building? Call for help you dumbass! He forced his body to stop. He was standing a few feet in front of the building now; the windows were masked in a yellow flame and Nick could feel the heat already. The door to the school looked like it had been ripped open; it was laying a few feet on the ground shamefully. Nick felt a chill run down his spine. The door was covered in bloody gashes and an odd symbol he had never seen before. He looked back at the hole where the door had been and shuddered. He felt his stomach churn again at the thought of something demonic crawling out of the smoky cave. He heard something explode inside the school, followed by a loud crash. He reached in his pocket slowly before realizing he didn't own a phone anymore. Well Shit. Someone screamed again, and before Nick could stop himself, he barged inside the building.

It was hot. No, it was burning. The air inside was thick and unbreathable. Nick covered his mouth with the bottom of his shirt hoping to filter out some of the smoke. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. Flames engulfed the hallway around him and for a second he fought the urge to run. Don't be stupid. Don't be stupid. Don't be stupid. He glanced at the lockers beside him, watching as the metal morphed and twisted, paint dripping down the wobbly frame. He coughed loudly and sucked in a smoky breath. He walked slowly through the halls trying to peer inside each classroom; trying to find the screaming. A pillar above him fell and he moved quickly. He needed to get out of here fast. Smoke was clouding the air and he put a bloodied hand in front of him, feeling for something that wasn't on fire.

"HELP!" He whipped his head in the direction of the screaming. He coughed again, chocking on the hot air. Something exploded to his left and Nick was slammed into the wall behind him. He cried out in pain as his left shoulder collided with the burning wall. He clutched at his shirt, the material around his shoulder was burned and his skin was exposed, blistering and blackened. He stood there for a second trying to peer through the hallway. Black smoke filled the tiny corridor and no light was visible, anywhere.

"PLEASE! HELP!" He heard someone cry again. He heard creaks and groans around him as the old building was beginning to give. Something fell to his right, and Nick glanced down the hall to see a door burst open, flames gushing out. HE NEEDED TO GET OUT OF HERE! NOW! He dropped to his knees, his lungs still trying to grasp at whatever oxygen they could find. He sat there for a second, trying to see light, trying to find life, and wondering if this was what Hell felt like. He took another small breath and moved towards his chemistry room. He felt the ground beneath him beginning to shake and wondered if he was the one shaking. He grabbed the handle above him and cursed loudly. Stupid boy! Haven't you learned anything from chemistry class! He slid up the door slowly, wrapping his hand with the bottom of his shirt and gripping the handle again. He pressed against the door hard. It didn't budge. He felt the world around him beginning to spin and the heat from the handle beginning to seep through his shirt, and pressed against the door again. "Please open you fucking ugly ass door," he shouted loudly. His hand was burning now; his head was swimming, and the world around him was growing darker. He pressed one last time, his sneakers rubbing against the floor. The door fell open and Nick stood there for a second stunned, and dizzily contemplating whether he had suddenly possessed superhuman strength.

He collapsed to his knees once more and looked up through the smoke to see a girl and guy huddled under one of the desks together. Oh, great, a fucking couple. He coughed loudly and choked. He glanced again at the couple and choked back a silent scream. Through the smoke and orange glow of the flames around him, he could make out two distorted heads with piercing red eyes. He shook his head; he didn't need this right now. He wasn't going crazy. HE WASN'T GOING CRAZY! He looked back up to see the couple staring at him with wide eyes. He probably looked like a flaming lunatic. Nick felt his stomach heave again, and shuttered. He was going to die here. With two idiots staring at him because they were too stupid to leave. He sucked in smoke, "GET OUT!" he yelled loudly. He felt something fall behind him and fought the urge to turn around, because honestly, he didn't care, he was going to die here. He was going to die in this smoky grave. NO! NO! HE WASN'T GOING TO DIE THIS WAY! NOT TODAY. HE HAD BEEN THROUGH TOO MUCH TO DIE THIS WAY!

He grabbed the doorframe beside him, ignoring the severe pain coursing through his hands and pulled himself up. He stumbled towards the back of the classroom, hoping- no praying- praying to God that there was a door. He felt the wall slowly and heard a muffled scraping sound as he realized someone had moved behind him. He turned briefly, seeing that the boy had crawled out from under the desk and instead was reaching for something in his bag. Nick bit back a sarcastic comment and turned back towards the smoky abyss, again feeling for a door. He stopped when he felt glass glide across his hand. He closed his eyes briefly as his vision wavered and felt his knees buckling. He pressed his right shoulder towards the glass and with all the energy he had left, rammed his shoulder into it. He felt something break and a sharp pain envelope his right arm. He covered his left hand with the remaining burnt fabric of his shirt and broke the hanging loose glass around the small window. It was small but big enough for them to fit through… it had to be. He saw flashing lights faintly through the black smoke and wondered what could possibly be going on now.

He turned back towards the couple; the girl still huddled under the desk, clutching her knees and crying loudly… but the boy? Nick scanned the room slowly and spotted the boy standing near the chalkboard, something shiny clasped in his left hand. He stared at Nick with glowing widespread eyes. Nick felt his blood boil; he was trying to help them and they didn't even seem to care. "GET THE FUCK OUT!" Nick yelled. He coughed loudly and inhaled, realizing, he could no longer breathe. There was no oxygen in the air now. The girl crawled slowly out from under the desk and ran to the boy, and for a moment Nick was glad his strength was gone, otherwise he would have pushed them out the window himself. They stood there for a second staring at him, before stumbling blindly towards the window.

The girl went first, she turned towards Nick, giving him a small smile and then climbed carefully out the window. The boy, however, stood in front of Nick, eyeing him like he was insane. Well, he probably wasn't wrong, Nick thought. Nick felt his vision sway again and his lungs straining; he glanced down at the shiny object in the boy's hand and after a moment, realized through the smoke, that it was a knife. What the actual fuck?

The boy pushed the knife towards Nick's chest and Nick could feel the sharp tip digging its way into his burning body. God, his whole body hurt. "Stay away from me and Sarah," the boy growled before grabbing the edge of the window and climbing out slowly.

Nick stood there, too dazed and oxygen-deprived to think, to move. Who the hell was Sarah? Oh yeah, the girl. Why did he have a knife? Why we're they in here? Why hadn't they tried to leave? Why were they scared of him? The world around him was fading, but whether it was from the smoke or the fact that he was losing consciousness, Nick didn't know. Everything around him seemed to move at a snail's pace. He remembered grabbing the window and feeling the glass digging into his exposed flesh on his shoulder and hands. He remembered cursing. He remembered lying on the ground, and feeling something wet dipping on his face. He remembered hearing, "Jesus, kid. Nick, can you hear me?" And then, he remembered nothing.

…

Nick sat there on the edge of the hospital bed, raking over what the Nurse had told him, and trying to figure out how, in the week and a half he had been here, he had managed to fuck up so badly. He shivered and looked down at the bandages that were wrapped tightly around his arms and hands. "Minor scrapes and burns," the Nurse had said, "nothing to be too concerned about, but something that should be watched". He picked at one of the older scabs on his palm and shivered again. The small white room was freezing. The Nurses had taken his shirt or what was left of it, which left him sitting on the bed, clad in only a pair of scorched jeans and melted sneakers. He heard someone clear their throat and looked up at Monroe.

Monroe was sitting in the chair opposite from him, his eyes dancing from the scar below Nick's left shoulder to the cigarette burn on his right ribs. Nick suddenly felt embarrassed. He could feel every mark that painted his pale body and wondered just how visible they were. It's not like you didn't deserve it Grimm! He cleared his throat and looked towards the small window that led into the gray and pink hallway. He could see Renard talking to two other officers and winced. He was in deep shit. He turned back to Monroe. He was leaning forward now with his head in his hands, and Nick couldn't help but wonder how long Monroe had actually been here. He looked tired, not angry, just tired. It's your fault he's here you stupid kid. It's your fault he isn't sleeping. It's your fault he isn't working. It's. All. Your. Fault.

Monroe sighed and looked back up at Nick. The kid still had black smoke coating his already too pale chest and face; his chest was littered with past experiences, and his left shoulder and arms were wrapped tightly with what use to be white gauze. The teenager shivered again, goosebumps were slightly visible on his exposed flesh. Monroe reached for the cardigan that was resting lazily behind him and held it out for the kid. "Here," he said after a few seconds of watching confusion cross over Nick's face. The teenager took it slowly as if he wasn't sure he wanted it, and put it on even more so. Monroe suppressed a small chuckle. He didn't consider himself to be a big man but seeing Nick swimming in his cardigan made him seem like a giant.

The kid relaxed after a few moments and Monroe rubbed his hands together. He and Rosalee had been here all night. Waiting and wondering if the teenager was ever going to wake up, or if he was going to be okay. The Doctors had said that Nick hadn't sustained any major injuries; his arms, hands and shoulders, although slightly burned, were in fine condition, and should heal easily on their own. He ran his hands through his hair and stared back down at the speckled floor again. Nick's whole body was littered with previous "mishaps" as the Doctor put it; he was malnourished and underweight for his height and age, but besides that, in perfect health. Monroe had scoffed at this remark and gone to the Nurse station several times wanting to know why in the hell the kid wasn't waking up. After the fifth or sixth time, one of the Doctors came out and explained it was probably pure exhaustion that kept the kid unconscious.

Monroe's phone buzzed silently beside him and he looked up to see Rosalee flash across the screen. She had left when Nick woke to work on an order for one her customers. He grabbed his phone and glanced back at the teenager, "I'll be right outside kid," he said before opening the door and stepping outside. Both Monroe and Rosalee had started to become accustomed to the idea that they were currently sharing their living space with a teenager. Nick wasn't like most kids, or, at least, he wasn't like Rosalee's 12-year-old cousin. The age gap set aside, Nick was still an odd teenager. He was quiet, reserved and sweet; he looked harmless. He didn't eat much and he hadn't caused any problems besides this one. He kept to himself a lot, making small sarcastic comments that made them laugh, and helped out in any way he could. He didn't talk back; he respected their authority and always worked around their schedule. There wasn't any need for concern regarding a "psychotic episode" as the Doctors put it. But then again, Nick had only been in their care for less than two weeks. So all-in-all, they didn't really know that much about him besides what Renard had told them over the phone.

Nick swallowed loudly, feeling his heart speed up as Monroe stepped outside. All he wanted to do was go back to Monroe's, take a shower, and forget about this whole damned night. He stood up slowly, pulling Monroe's cardigan closer, looking for warmth. He grabbed his necklace that sat on the bedside table and inspected it closely, making sure there were no burn marks or melted metal, before putting it on. He sat back down gradually realizing he couldn't leave; not only would he need to be checked out but he had nowhere to go.

"Rosalee, no, I-I don't know. I don't know if they are pressing charges. No I didn't ask. Well, what do you think we should do?" Monroe said softly. Even with the door slightly shut Nick could tell they were arguing about him. He felt his fists clench. Anger and rage blossomed throughout his body, ripping and clawing at his ribs, begging to get out. It hurt more than the rough skin under his bandages. His breathing hitched. He wasn't a bad kid. He didn't start the fire- well, he was 80% sure he didn't start the fire. Then why were you there loser?

"I don't know!" he exclaimed loudly before he could stop. He glanced cheekily at the door to see Monroe still on the phone, giving him weird looks. Great, they all think you're going insane. He saw Renard say something to Monroe before walking into the small white room and shutting the door behind him. He took the seat Monroe had occupied earlier and cleared his throat, "The precinct is clearing you until a further investigation is conducted. There wasn't any video footage but we received an anonymous tip that puts you at the scene before the fire started. The school doesn't know who is responsible but for the moment Nick, they're looking at you. I'll see what I can do, but I have to tell you this doesn't look good." Nick let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He knew the school would hold him accountable regardless… it always worked out that way, no matter where he went.

"When you come to the office tomorrow, I would like you to meet with one of the precinct therapists to go over with him again what happened." Renard said calmly. Nick bit his bottom lip. Great. Another shrink to pick your brain. Another shrink to lock you in an institution again. There goes another 2 years. Great job Nick.

Renard let out a long sigh and picked some splintered wood off his uniform. He had been one of the first ones to arrive at the school. The whole chemistry building was in flames; smoke stretching 2 miles high and darkening the sky, preventing the rising sun from shining through. He had found Nick lying on his back a few feet away from the fire, covered in whatever was left of his clothing, black soot and blood. To be honest he remembered thinking the kid was dead. He looked dead. He was lying motionless and Renard had wondered whether or not he could bring himself to check to see if the kid was breathing. When the rain had started falling from the murky sky, Nick jerked. His body suddenly coughing and gasping, trying to make room in his smoke-clogged lungs for the oxygen he so desperately needed. Renard had jumped too. He hadn't expected Nick to come back. Most Grimm's don't.

"Nicholas, tell me again what you remember?" He said, straightening his tie and leaning back. Nick continued to stare out the window at Monroe. His back was turned to the glass now and he was gesturing with his hands; Nick couldn't make out what he was saying. "I- I don't remember much. I woke up on one of tables outside the school. I don't know what happened before that- I don't even know how I got there." He took a deep breath and turned back towards Renard, "I remember seeing the school and hearing screaming coming from inside. And I remember running into the building." He paused briefly and closed his eyes.

Memories flooded back to him in waves. He was standing in the school again. Flames and smoke surrounding him; crowding him. He could still hear the sound of wood and glass breaking as it gave way to the hungry flames. He could still hear the screams. He could still see the door-

"I found a boy and girl about my age, in one of the classrooms near the end of the hallway", he said slowly. He swallowed. He could still hear the girl screaming. He could still see the boy firmly grasping the polished blade in his hand. Renard cleared his throat, "There wasn't any sign of a boy or girl, Nick."

Nick opened his eyes slowly and looked at Renard, confusion settling over his face. What? "They were there sir," he said softly. Renard shook his head. He had searched the whole parameter, the firemen had scavenged every inch of the building; there was no evidence of anyone else being in that school. "Nick, I promise you, no one else was there, just you. We didn't find anyone else. Anywhere." He said gently. Nick's breathing hitched. No. NO! The boy had a knife in his hand; he dug it into Nick's chest until he bled. Nick glanced down at his chest and started wiping away the remaining smoke, trying to find the blood, trying to find the cut. Nothing. He looked back up; his eyes widened now, his breathing catching rapidly. He remembered the boy and the girl! There had been a boy! There had been a- You're going crazy. You imagined it. All. Of. It. Pathetic Grimm!

"What were you doing at the school Nick?" Nick tried to think. He couldn't. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. You imagined it all, you psycho! He dropped his head in his hands and shook his head. He didn't know. He didn't remember. He was outside the school then inside the classroom. He saw the boy. He saw the girl. He saw a knife. Then nothing. School. Classroom. Boy. Girl. Knife. Nothing. School. Classroom. Boy. Girl. Knife. Nothing. SchoolClassroomBoyGirlKnifeNothing. There had to be other people. There had to be a knife. He wouldn't have barged into a burning building on his own! Nick held his breath and felt his stomach lurch. Unless… unless… you were the one screaming. Unless you were the one who started the fire.

Nick felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. Renard was staring at him with a worried expression. Nick put his hands by his side and took a deep breath. He sat like that for a moment, calming himself down. Just breathe, you'll figure it out later… maybe. Renard leaned back in his chair again and glanced over at the window. Monroe was still on the phone. He eyed the teenager again, "Why were you at the school Nick?" Nick shook his head and shrugged slightly. Renard sighed, hoping the therapist would have better luck tomorrow. He stood up and walked to the door slowly. He could feel Nick's eyes on him, watching him. He turned around, one more question burning the tip of his tongue. "Nick," he questioned, "at the school… whose blood was on you?"

Nick swallowed loudly, "I-I'm not sure." In all that had happened in the past 11 hours, he had forgotten about that. He felt a chill run down his spine knowing that if he had been the one who had burned down the school, then he could have hurt someone too.

…..

Sorry, side note: Hank will be in here soon. And you will see more Monroe/ Rosalee "family" time with a side of Renard after school. Also, Nick doesn't know he's a Grimm, just like Truble. Neither do Monroe and Rosalee. Peace lovelies! Please review! I'll try to post when I get a chance.

Okay, later lovelies!

-KB