Summary: Just when Stiles is about to try and extrapolate a conclusion from what he knows, it turns out he knows even less than he thought.

***

Apparently, after having been confined for so many months, my Muse has galloped off with the bit in her mouth and is taking this into a completely different direction which will lead, well ... no clue, actually. It's a bit frightening, to be honest.

The hospital is in serious need of maintenance.

At least, that's Stiles' opinion, as he stares at the faded evidence of water damage on the ceiling. Then again, hopefully the hospital actually has undergone maintenance, because he doesn't look forward to the prospect of drowning in his bed when the next major autumn rain storm hits Beacon Hills. Judging by the amount of damage, that's a fair possibility.

It would be a very uncool death.

Not that dying by bleeding out resulting from a bullet to the head is very glamorous, but it beats drowning while lying down, because that - again, according to Stiles - is the very epitome of meaningless deaths. Being shredded by a feral werewolf, or stabbed by a homicidal pixie, or even strangled by some strange tentacle creature: all acceptable endings, as far as Stiles is concerned. At least as long as they're the result of trying to protect the people he cares about; trying to protect the pack. Even if he's no part of said pack, he'd almost consider it an honor if he died defending any of them.

Drowning in bed: not so much.

But as long as he's stuck here - and he has yet to be given a definite release date because "amnesia" and "migraines" and "additional neurological exams" - he might as well try and make sense of things. Scott's statement the other day resulted in what only can be described as the Mother of all Panic Attacks. And that's saying something, seeing how often these past years Stiles has been reduced to a quivering mass trying to suck in air.

This was, with the exception of the one he'd experienced the day of his mother's funeral, the worst he's ever experienced.

It had taken three nurses, two doctors, and one syringe of quick acting sedative - and yes, even Stiles' oxygen depleted and horrified mind had caught on to the similarity with a particular Christmas song, thank you very much! - to force his lungs to start functioning, and after he'd surfaced to some semblance of coherency again, Scott's words had been turning over and over and over in his mind nonstop.

"Gone" and "Haven't seen him."

"Disappeared."

So here's Stiles; injured, suffering from amnesia, suffering from migraines whenever he tries to think. In short - and lets be honest here, Ladies and Gentlemen - being useless! Which still doesn't stop him from trying to piece together what he knows. Because even though all of the above is an undisputed and sad truth, there's one thing which nobody can ever accuse him of. And that's giving up.

Nope. Not happening. Stiles is the master of perseverance, the earl of tenacity, the king of bull-doggedness. Heck, he's the very emperor of pertinacious.

He's fucking stubborn, OK?

Which is why he's gathering every little fact and detail, all the little bits and scraps he knows together, and sticks them on some imaginary whiteboard in his mind. Puts them on there and turns them this way and that way, and starts trying to connect them. And in the middle of the whiteboard he sticks the fact that Derek's gone. Because, let's face it, that's the bit that matters most.

To him, anyways.

For starters, he needs to put everything in its correct time frame. "Two weeks" Scott had said. Two weeks since they'd found him in the abandoned warehouse; two weeks since Derek was seen last. And there's no way he's putting that under the heading 'Coincidence' either, because it means that, it means ... it means nothing. It should mean something, and Stiles just knows that there's a connection, but he just ... he just can't get it. It's like every little fact is just drifting lazily around in his mind, like Autumn leaves on a breeze, and he's unable to grab it and pin it down and make it stick.

Stiles is rubbing his head, utterly frustrated by yet another migraine signaling its pending arrival just by simply trying to think, when the door to his room opens.

"Hi Dad."

"Hey kiddo."

The sheriff looks and sounds exhausted, the lines and grooves in his face a testimony to the fact that he's frustrated as well. Frustrated by his son's health, no doubt - even though Stiles is doing much better - and, like Stiles had managed to wheedle out of him, even more frustrated because so far nobody has found a single clue as to what really happened.

Stiles was shot, Stiles was found; case closed.

And then, of course, there's the possibility that the department is looking into Derek's disappearance as well.

"Dad? Have you ... are you guys looking into where Derek might be? You know, now that he's gone?"

His father looks at him quizzically, then draws his brows together and drops his head in his hands. Stiles mentally kicks himself - and vows to physically kick Scott next - because of course his father doesn't want him to worry about this; doesn't want his son to yank another mystery out of the whole pile of mishaps and puzzles and sink his teeth in it while still lying in hospital and trying to regain his health! It stands to reason that's why his father hasn't mentioned Derek yet, and most likely told Scott not to do so either, because Stiles is...

"You mean Derek Hale? Who told you Hale is gone, son?"

Ah. Shit.

"Ehm ... it's possible that, maybe, you know, Scott might have mentioned it last time he was here?"

Stiles fingers nervously pluck at the blanket, knowing full well his father will come down on his friend like some avenging angel of the Lord, or any other mythical being on equal footing with a worried and distraught and upset parent, and that does not bode well for Scott's health. He mentally apologizes in advance, scratching the 'kick Scott' item of his To Do list. The poor kid will barely survive the tongue lashing the sheriff undoubtedly will give him.

Scratching his head, the sheriff sighs, then looks Stiles straight in the eyes.

"Well, I don't know where Scott got his information from, but I can tell you nobody is looking for Derek Hale."

Huh?

"Jesus, Dad! Why the hell not?! I mean, yeah, he's ... well, was a murder suspect, and I know not everybody, OK, most people aren't too fond of him. But come on, Dad! He's really not that bad, or actually pretty cool, and just because you don't like him doesn't mean that..."

His father's hand stops the rambling, for which Stiles is secretly grateful, - because that pending migraine? yeah, it's here - and draws his brows together again.

"Stiles, that's not what I meant. It's just that we usually don't go looking for people who aren't gone."

Wait.

"What?"

The sheriff rubs a hand over his eyes, then heaves a sigh.

"Hale's not gone, Stiles."

There's a big, undefinable lump in Stiles throat, and he feels his heart skittering against his ribs. His dad is staring at him, this really strange look on his face - although Stiles doubts it's a match for the dumbfounded look he's certain he now has on his face - and he just keeps staring and, oh fuck! things are just so confusing and what does his father even mean with that?!

"How ... what do you mean, Dad? Of course Derek's gone! Scott told me he's gone!"

And his dad just keeps staring and then shaking his head, and now he's sighing, and Stiles ... Stiles just feels like his mind - what little there's left of it, anyway - has become completely unhinged or something; like somebody took an egg beater and whipped his grey cells into one frothing, non-functioning mass and then flushed it all down the drain.

Then the sheriff takes a breath and just up-ends everything.

"I know he's not gone because I saw him. I saw him just yesterday."