Authors note: Hi :D Sorry this chapter is so short, but I'm drowning in my college work and wanted to give you all a nice cliff-hanger to go out on. I am the child of Moffat. Mwa ha ha. Some of you have messaged some queries:

Ste's narrative isn't in character at all: That's because this is adult Ste telling the story, all will be revealed.
Why didn't Ste call an ambulance: Because it never crossed his mind. He allowed panic to take over his being and that stopped any rational thinking.
How did Brendan know Ste's mom: All will be revealed
Where's Walker?!: Arriving very, very soon, my dears ;)

That night I endured the worst night's sleep I'd ever had.

Just when I'd be dropping off to sleep, suddenly everything would come crashing down on me, like a huge wave. I was suffocating, almost drowning... I never realized how much I needed Brendan just to stay afloat.

But Brendan was gone now.

He'd dropped me off outside Cheryl's before locking the doors and driving away, my desperate pleas for him to stay or take me with him fell on deaf ears. The sounds of his car growing fainter as it drove away seemed stuck on repeat in my mind, and no matter what I did I couldn't stop it. The gentle roar, the gravel being thrown around under the wheels, then silence.

He didn't wait around, didn't stay just for one more night.

I told Cheryl we'd been robbed and that Brendan was staying in a hotel. She proceeded to make such a fuss I almost wanted to sleep on the lawn.

"But what if you'd been home!" She cried for the hundredth time, "What if they'd hurt you, babe! You could have been killed!"
"Aunt Cheryl, I'm fine." I replied for the hundredth time, wrapped up in a blanket with a cup of tea in my hands, "I was at school, I told you."
"Oh, love, you could have been home ill... oh, what an awful thing to happen on your birthday!" She cooed, touching my cheek, "Did they take everything? Even your presents?"
"Yeah..." I nodded, "They tore up the plane tickets too."
She groaned in frustration, standing up from the sofa, "Oh, no, now I'll have to ring the BnB to cancel! Oh, I hate long distance calls..." She turned back to me, "Oh, love, I'm sorry. Listen to me complaining after what you and Bren have been through." She looked close to tears.
"It's fine, Aunt Cheryl. I just wanna go to bed…" It had grown dark by the time we'd set off for Cheryl's, all the events of the day had left me physically and mentally drained.
"Of course, pet. There's a bed made upstairs, on the left." She smiled, helping me stand.

The guest room was the only room in the whole house which wasn't so bright and colourful it produced constant migraines. Whilst refreshing, it only made me long to be back in my room at Brendan's even more. I missed my football calendar, the posters, the clutter and the dust. This room was way too clean, too formal, too organised to feel like home.

I reached into my bag for my sleep things, when something cold and translucent rubbed against my fingertips. I caught it and pulled it from the bag. It was a small, square box, wrapped in red paper. As I held it my legs felt weak and I had to sit down, holding this box as if it were a priceless treasure.
He'd saved one... just one, a small one. This tiny present managed to somehow survive the ambush, and Brendan found it.
My fingers shook as I peeled off the cello tape, removing the box from within the paper. Inside the box was a small cross on a thin, very fine silver chain. I hooked the chain over my finger and held it up, studying it closer to the light. I lowered it into my palm; it was cold against my skin, the cross no bigger than my little finger.

From the moment it touched my skin, it seemed to spark a memory in my brain.

I was young, maybe six or seven. A little boy crying, all alone in his room, blisters producing on the tiny hand he'd burned on a hot kitchen pipe. Where was mummy to keep him away? She was downstairs, sleeping off the hangover that not even her child's weeping could disturb. Footsteps were approaching the door where he wept, somebody knocked softly, calling out his name. Not mummy, but a man. The door opened and the man with a moustache sat down beside him, asking what the matter was. He'd showed this man his blistered hand, crying too hard to tell him about the pipe. The man reached around his neck and pulled off the metal cross which hung there, pressing it into the boy's palm. It was cold and soothed some of the pain. He let the little boy hold the cross in his palm while he ran some cold water in the sink, cleaning the wound with a flannel. When he stopped crying, he took him out for a McDonalds.

That cross now rested in my sixteen year old palm, silver against the white marks the burns left on the skin. The reality that Brendan wouldn't be here to take care of me anymore was crushing, like a heavy weight on my chest, choking my heart and pushing air from my lungs. I was too tired to keep dwelling on this, too weak to allow the weight to grow heavier on my heart. I knocked the bag off my bed and climbed fully clothed under the covers, clutching the cross in my hand. Between quiet sobs of anguish and silent mourning for the father I'd lost that day, I wasn't sure when sleep finally claimed me.

All I remember is I found myself very rudely awakened by a loud bang, followed by rough hand around my neck around my soft throat.

Before I had a chance to scream, something that felt like a wet handkerchief was pressed against my face, blocking my mouth and nose.

Everything began to spin, and then went black once more.