It appears I will be continuing this story... It may or may not have had something to do with the 12 or so reviews I received in less than 24 hours. Instead of responding to them all, I thought you would rather I updated sooner, so here is your update. An absolutely massive thank you to everyone who reviewed or fav/followed this story! You've made my discombobulated morning/day a bit more enjoyable.

Also, this story won't be a romance, I just needed a way to start it and Gwen seemed like the right way to go. If you like her though, she'll make a few more appearances.

I don't know the protocol if all your family is dead but for the sake of the story, if I get it wrong, just go along with it.

Time slowed down for Peter. He wasn't truly sure what happened next, it was all just a slow motion blur. Someone had noticed him in the crowed as the boy who lived in the house. He was pushed forwards through the crowed and ended up in front of a tired looking police officer. The man asked him some questions, Peter wasn't sure whether he had answered them or not but from what he remembered, the man nodded occasionally and then he was put in a police car before being driven off.

At some point that evening (or maybe in the early hours of the next morning) Peter ended up in a chair in a warm office. He was sure he had heard at least five "It'll be ok son" or some variation in one hour, he wasn't really paying attention, and there had been loads of people squeezing his shoulder or giving him a pat on the back. It never really registered. A female civilian clothed officer sat in a comfortable chair across from Peter and spoke in a soft, patronizing voice while staring at Peter. He couldn't hear a word she was saying, he just wanted her to shut up and let the floor suck him up.

"Mr Parker?" a voice came through the abyss. "Peter, are you ok?"

Peter looked up and saw it was the female officer. He wanted to scream at her, shout that everything was not ok. Last year his life fell apart but he had been fixing it. Now his life shattered into fine dust before it was scattered in a wild blizzard. No, he was not ok.

In response though, his face stayed impassive and let her figure out if he was ok or not. Peter hadn't cried yet, he couldn't, he wasn't sure why.

The female officer, Susan (her name was on the Starbucks coffee on the desk behind her), put a 'comforting' hand on his knee.

"I'm not sure how much you've taken in Peter." Susan said, now she sounded genuinely comforting, "Your aunt's death was an accident. The evidence points towards the oven blowing up and causing the fire. Your aunt was standing next to the oven; her death was instant and painless."

Peter looked into Susan's eyes to make sure she wasn't lying. As far as he could tell, she wasn't and the thought of an instant death for Aunt May was comforting. Peter felt a tear welling up in his eye and gliding down his dry skinned face. His nose started to run so he sniffed. Susan reached for a box of tissues and Peter took it to hide his face and clear the tears.

"Do you have any family you can sta-"

"No." Peter's voice cracked, "No, she was my last one – my last relative."

He didn't want to see the sympathetic look in Susan's eyes. He let the tears flow smoothly down his face now. The dam had broken and there was no stopping it. His eyes were hidden by his hair that now covered his damp face.

Peter heard the scarping of a chair and then the sound of a door opening and closing. He knew Susan had left. Peter let some chocking noises escape his lips.

He wanted – no – he needed someone to blame, but there was only him. If he hadn't gone out that night she would still be alive, right? Was he laughing at one point in the film as his aunt burnt or was he taking a bite into a meatball. Maybe he was kissing Gwen. Was it unfair for him to have such a good evening while his aunt prepared for her death? Was she cooking dinner? Had she just watched something on TV and gotten bored. Could he have prevented?

These questions swam around Peter's brain, crashing into senses violently causing him to sob harder. Ten minutes later he couldn't cry anymore. He was drained emotionally, he felt more tired than doing an all-nighter as Spiderman. He was now a shell. Susan came back in with a uniformed officer and introduced him. Peter didn't hear a word of it. He then found himself sitting in a police car again with the officer from Susan's office. He was led into a building and found himself on a vaguely comfortable bed and hid under the cover, just as he had done less than twenty four hours ago, this time, no one was threatening him with stealing them.

He wasn't sure when it happened, but at some point that night, Peter's eyes had drooped and he had fallen into a dreamless sleep. No matter how many hours had passed (and by the position of the sun signalling midday) Peter did not feel like he had slept. Within seconds, he remembered the events of last night and gripped onto the duvet like it was a life line. No matter how much he squeezed, he couldn't hear Aunt May complaining at him to get out of bed.

There was a knock on the door and Peter's head slowly emerged from its hiding place. It was the officer who had driven him here.

"Good morning Mr Parker. Would you like some breakfast?" the officer asked. Peter shook his head. He really did not feel like eating at this moment. He then looked around and saw that he was in a hospital room. The policeman noticed him looking around his room.

"You went into shock last night Mr Parker -" Peter cut him off in a hoarse, dry voice.

"Peter." He croaked. The officer looked confused. " Mr Parker resembles too many dead men in my life."

The officer nodded understandingly.

"Well Peter, as I was saying, you went into shock last night. You were unresponsive and we didn't want you to do anything impulsive. I had to get a wheelie bed to take you from the car." The officer stated. He then took a seat next to Peter's bed. "My name is Officer Mark. I don't know if you picked that up last night. Anyway, we've paid for you to have this bed for twenty four hours but we should probably head off soon. I just needed to see if you were responsive."

Peter nodded as if he understood. People still sounded mostly like mumbles to him.

"We're going to find a children's home for you but we're tracing your family tree back to see if you have any living relatives. If we find anything, we'll be sure to inform you within a week."

Peter vaguely understood what was being said. He didn't want to cry again but the thought of leaving his house and living with strangers did not sound good. Mark realised he wouldn't get any verbal response from Peter so he continued.

"We can head over to your house and pick up anything salvageable. Anything you want to keep will be put into storage until you are of legal age to possess it again."

Peter nodded once more and then made to get out of bed once he located the on-suite bathroom. Mark stood up after noticing Peter's goal, said he would be back shortly and then vanished.

Mark came back ten minutes later and all Peter had had the energy to do was wash his face, rinse his mouth and use the toilet.

"The firemen say it's safe to enter your house. Are you ready?" Mark asked. Peter looked around the plain room, he felt oddly attached even though he had barely been conscious while in it. He then followed Mark out and went for another ride in a police car. He noted that this was the first time he was sitting in a front seat and not in the back like a criminal. If Mark knew who he was, he might throw him in the back, only this time, he would have the intention of treating him like a criminal. Spiderman was still unpopular in the world, especially with the police force. They blamed him for Captain George Stacy's death. The public was just getting accustomed to the idea of Spiderman and then that annoying anchorman J Jonah Jameson decided to ruin it all by saying he was a villain.

Peter then noted sadly that his aunt didn't actually know what he did most of the time. He had lied to her and never made up for it. He wasn't sure if he was felt happy or sad about that. He was sorry that he never got a chance to say sorry for lying all the time and coming home beaten up at stupid o'clock and then saying 'I'll explain later' but instead, he would avoid her.

Peter was pulled out of his thoughts when the car pulled to a halt.

"We're here." Mark said sadly. Peter reluctantly looked up and saw his house. At first glance it looked normal. Then, he noticed all the burn marks, the wet wood where the fire hose had violently tried to put out the roaring fire. Peter sighed before commanding his unwilling to get out of the car. He walked into the house and Mark followed a few feet behind.

Peter inspected the sitting room and then made his way to the kitchen. He felt tears role into his eyes as he saw his aunt's previously clean surfaces scorched and burnt. The house normally smelt nice, it smelt of home to Peter. Now that smell was overridden by the smell of burning and scorched material. Peter wasn't sure how long he spent staring at the kitchen, trying to accept that this was where his aunt died, before he moved out of the room and to the stairs. Peter saw that Mark had put boxes by the front door for him to fill. There were three in total. He decided to start filling them. He looked at the shoes by the door. One old pair had been burnt but Peter didn't care. He pick two pairs of non burnt trainers and his coat and two jumpers lining the wall on coat pegs. Under one particular blue jumper sat his aunt's navy cardigan. It had a lovely broach in it which Peter delicately removed before carefully sliding the broach in his pocket. It had a little owl sitting on a branch. The owl had bright stone eyes. Uncle Ben had bought it for her for their anniversary five years ago and she was rarely seen without it.

Peter then made his way upstairs. The floor felt weak under his feet so he trod carefully. He made it to his room and noted that his duvet was still unmade, his room was still a disgrace but there was a whole by the bottom of his bed that looked into the kitchen underneath made by the fire. Peter looked around his room deciding what he wanted to take. There wasn't much. Peter left the skateboards stacked up on his wall. He took a few bits of clothing, he could sell the rest. He snuck his box of Spiderman equipment from under his bed as well as his dad's old brief case and logically put them at the bottom of one of the boxes before dumping clothes and underwear on top. He then put his laptop in one of the other boxes after he filled the first one. He put his camera and its new lens on top and some of the pictures from around the room, some framed, some not. He then grabbed a few knick knacks from shelves and off his table before feeling that he didn't want anymore and then he paused. He saw a bit of brown paper poking out from under his pillow. Peter lifted his pillow and saw that it was an envelope. Peter picked up the letter. But didn't open it. He kept holding it.

He then moved through the rooms to his aunt and uncle's room. He wanted to take something other than just his aunt's broach. Finally, he decided to take his uncle's favourite shoulder sling bag to which he attached the broach. A bit of both of them, he decided, he slid the envelope he was holding into the bag. Then Peter felt a craving for one more thing so he made his way downstairs.

"Have you finished?" Mark asked unemotionally.

"I was wondering if I could retrieve two things from my aunt." Peter stated. The thought of taking something from her dead body made him shiver.

"And what would that be?" Mark questioned.

"She was wearing a necklace, just a plain silver chain with a gold wedding ring on it. I would like that and her wedding ring to add to the chain." Peter explained.

Mark looked like he was thinking for a moment before he nodded slowly.

"I'll see what I can do." He said before turning away to make a phone call.

Peter left Mark to make his call and wandered around down stairs. He still had one box to fill if he carried his jumpers. He really couldn't think of anything that he would miss. Don't misinterpret this, he would miss everything, nothing stuck out to him as something he would cry over if he didn't take it.

Within five minutes he was sat by the door just begging to leave. He didn't want to be in here anymore. Mark then came out of the kitchen.

"We can pick up your items from the morgue." Mark stated before offering to take a box. All the boxes were pretty heavy so Peter indicated to the lightest one and took the two heaviest ones like they were nothing. He heard Mark grunt at the weight and put his boxes in the trunk before stepping aside for Mark to do the same. He then, spontaneously fan into the house and ran upstairs and grabbed his most prized possession at this point. His skateboard. He ran back down, careful not to fall through the delicate floor and out the door. He almost caught his uncle's bag on the door on his way out. He then climbed in the car with the skateboard on his lap. Mark climbed into the driver's seat and took his place.

Mark pulled out of his parking spot and drove down the road. They reached the morgue too quickly for Peter's liking. He wasn't ready to see his aunt so he stayed waiting in the car while Mark retrieved his items. Mark was back within five minutes and handed Peter a sealed see-through bag before driving to their final destination, the children's home.

Peter opened the bag and slipped the necklace out into his hand. He unclasped the chain and put Aunt May's ring on to join Ben's. He then put the necklace on and hid the chain under his shirt. This was going to be a hard adjustment but Peter would do it, for them.

What is the American 'of age', when you inherit things? In Britain it's 18 but is it 21 or something?

Did this chapter reach expectation?