Only He saw

He was safe!

A week had passed, a fact unknown to Stiles, who had resided in the musty sheets of his bed, frequently visited by Peter and more scarcely by his father. Here, for the majority of his days, he stayed...Only leaving to eat the bare necessities and to use the nearby bathroom.

Peter made sure to visit often, as he grew more and more worried about the weakening mental health of the boy after the realization of such a horrifying event. On countless occasions, the Were had seen him clutching scrabbling fingers to the base of his head, perhaps as a coping mechanism, or maybe the confusion had forced exhausted thoughts to badger away at him wondering where the pain and its marks had gone.

Though The Sheriff had tried innumerable times, Stiles refused to accept his medication, so the ADHD prescription lay ignored on the desk. Shivers wracked his bony form, a sheen of sweat enunciating the emotional fever the boy was trapped in. The sheets were beginning to smell, the scent of pain, sickness and sweat a maddening pulse affecting the entirety of the house. Everyone was affected.

He yearned to ask, but John was terrified to enquire Peter about the bizarre flashback he witnessed, and how exactly he was pulled into it. The answer, however, came incredibly confusingly from the local vet: Dr Deaton. As the Sheriff became more entrenched in his job- as if using exhaustion as an excuse to forget about Stiles- he found himself dropping an injured K9 off at the clinic. What greeted him perplexed him a deal more than the original events had done.

Deaton regarded the dog, closely, silently. Finally looking up at the Sheriff standing impatiently in front of him. His eyes unveiled no secrets to the thoughts within, yet bestowed the target of his gaze with a sense of unadulterated unease.

"Your son, Mr Stilinski." Johns' head snapped up...a confused, wary glare greeting a cool, icy stare. He straightened his back, flaring up as if ready to defend his offspring from a flurry of unknown attacks.

"I heard what happened."

"...From who? What do you know?" He challenged the vet, scared to find out what the other man knew.

Ignoring the question, Deaton carried on smoothly. "My sincerest wishes to Stiles, I hope he recovers soon."

"How did it happen?" His broken voice cracked, wariness turning to desperation in the face of a knowledgeable source.

"Your son has a spark, Sheriff Stilinski."

After much interrogation and despondent pleading, John couldn't extract another word from the vet regarding Stiles. So he left, with a healthy dog, but a newly refreshed sense of confusion, fear and emptiness.

Returning home in the early stages of the next morning felt like a curse to John, a wave of tired depression hitting him on the welcome mat. Discarding his keys, he collapsed onto the sofa, fully aware he would be on his way again soon to go back to the station, so he slept fitfully. Tossing and turning despondently, his thoughts echoed that of Peters: Stiles. Stiles! How the hell could they help?

Two hours and nineteen minutes after he fell asleep, John woke up. He stretched restless limbs, their shifting muscles writhing under his skin. After some debate, he texted Peter:

"Do you by any chance know what a Spark is? The vet said some cryptic nonsense about Stiles. -J"

Quickly, he got a reply. And not one he expected, but one he was sincerely relieved to receive.

"Yes, I do. It would make a lot of sense actually, it was probably the reason Stiles was able to subconsciously show us his flashback. -P"

"What is a Spark? -J"

"I can come over around midday and talk to you, and maybe Stiles, I'll explain everything I know. -P"

"Thank you. -J"

So it was arranged. Hesitantly, John made his way upstairs, to sleep in his bed. The room looked unused, and it spoke nothing but the truth. Making a detour to Stiles room, he stood watching the boy for a few seconds, before reaching down to firmly kiss his forehead, before muttering a reassuring whisper.

"I love you kiddo. So much. And I won't let you do this to yourself."

He stood up, and made his way slowly to his beckoning bed, and slept deeply, for what was left of the early morning. Things would change! He thought, and that made him take to slumber with ease, the stress of overworking and his mourning son seeping out of clenched fists, dissipating in an unconscious bliss.

For the first time in a very long while, The Sheriff woke up, slowly, thankfully and pleasantly. The sound of early rising birds sifted through closed windows as if calling him to open himself up, to spill new light on the situation. So he did. Cautious optimism opened up dusty windows, made a ruffled bed, and a steaming, edible breakfast.

When he was satisfied by his work, he smiled slowly, gazing at the spread, before making the journey to his son's room to rise him once and for all to join the world again.

Gently shaking lax shoulders, he bribed the slowly mending boy out of his fort of blankets, tempting him with the aroma of fresh bacon and cooked eggs. John was ready to try. For himself, hor his son, and for his wife. That's what she'd want, and it shamed him to think of how badly he'd been failing her. So he made a promise on that bright, sunny day to never put his job before his family. The Stilinski's would always come through.

So tentative happiness crept its way back to Stiles' heart as he sat eating breakfast...not alone! Quietly and jokingly, he chastised his father for eating too much meat, but he was happy. So, so happy.

Now all he needed was one more person. Peter. The thought arrived out of the blue, shocking Stiles and making him worried he was becoming too attached...but the man had become a permanent fixture in his life, whether he knew it or not! He wanted him to stay.

The Sheriff beamed, sure his son was back...Back from a period of being dead, depressed and scarred. But broken minds cannot be fixed that quickly. He knew all too well how long the mending process would take, and the number of relapses that were almost surely going to appear. But for one blessed, happy morning, they laughed, smiled and felt real. Stiles felt alive! He'd been taken away from the dull monochrome of his slump and he was there! With his dad! He felt soft, still tender as if anything happening right now had the potential to break it, but the moment never came. He began to mend, a steady process, where he felt shrouded and safe. He was safe.