If you asked Sloan Guerra last night if she planned on waking up after passing out on her uncomfortable couch to an alarm blaring "Quimbara", a pounding head, dry mouth, and a need to purge whatever it was sloshing in her stomach, she'd give you that. She wouldn't have remembered it, but she'd believe it.

If you told her she'd wake to all that plus Laura Hale standing over her impatiently, pressing her chilling hands against the back of her neck, well, that's probably where she would have told you to fuck off.

"Jesus!" Sloan lurched up, tumbling off the couch and nearly rolling into her coffee table. The movement sent a wave of nausea through her, and before she could process anything else, she found herself scrambling to her bathroom, slamming the door open. Seeing the lid of the toilet down, she only barely managed to turn to the tub before emptying her stomach of whatever the hell it was she drank last night.

It felt like forever, but she finally finished. Chest heaving, legs shaking, she spit into the tub before reaching down and turning on the water to wash away the mess. She'd wash it better with bleach later; for the moment she just wanted to get it out of her sight.

Laura stood at the door, watching with concern as Sloan shuffled to the sink, turned on the hot water and proceeded to wash out her mouth. Her hands shook as they gripped her toothbrush, and more than once she had to pause to hold on to the counter so that she wouldn't fall to the side. She rinsed her mouth, splashed water on her face to try and get the crusty feeling of unpleasant sleep from her. When she looked up, a message had been written in the fogged mirror.

You promised

Sloan felt herself deflate, and if she was in a better state of mind would have been impressed that she was able to shrink anymore into herself. "I know," she said, voice hoarse from a night of drinking and morning of retching. She reached up and wiped a hand through the message, erasing it, before turning to face Laura. Her eyes were sympathetic, but also disappointed, and Sloan wished she was still drunk so she wouldn't be able to see her.

Sloan hobbled past Laura into the living room, ignoring the scatterings of clothes, books, and files, the bottle Sloan had demolished the night before left empty and tipped over next to the couch. Before she had disappeared, Laura had given her shit about it, called it disgusting, and offered to buy her a maid for a day. Sloan had waved her off, claiming that it would be cheaper to bribe Stiles and Scott to do it for her.

The kitchen was just as bad as the living room. Dishes had to be washed, the table cluttered with boxes and bags of take out. She didn't have to look in her fridge to know that it was near empty, and the only things she did have in there were probably past their date. But there was one thing Sloan kept clean and stocked, ready or use: her coffee machine and her single most favorite mug.

It had a monkey painted on it, its front on one side, the back on the other, and its arm acting as the handle. She'd had it for years, a gift from a former best friend. Laura had expressed surprise when she first saw it.

"He still has the matching cup," she mused, and Sloan didn't know how to feel about that.

They stood in silence as Sloan started her coffee, one by choice and the other not. There were things she had to do. The Sheriff to see, a murder to report, a death to relive, an apartment to clean. But she couldn't bring herself to leave her place just yet. Not with her pounding head and foggy senses.

"Do you remember anything?" Sloan asked, and Laura shook her head. Before she could feel despondent over it, Laura's hands rose, touching her throat before falling to her abdomen. Sloan knew enough about werewolves to know what that meant. Her throat had been ripped out. She had been torn in half. Laura's eyes went wide in surprise.

She didn't remember dying, but she knew how it happened. Most dead were like that. An instinctual knowledge.

"Another werewolf…" Sloan huffed. "Fuck."

She'd have to call Mick. See if he'd find and send her some wolfbane bullets without asking questions. She knew he wouldn't, because over the last five or so years she had worked with him in L.A., he had developed an intense protectiveness over her that was damn near smothering. Something about her being one of the few humans he let into his life.

The last of the coffee dripped into the pot, and Sloan poured herself a cup. She waited as long as she could stand before downing half the cup, scalding her tongue and throat in the process. It settled in her stomach uneasily. It'd make her sick later, but for now, the heat and caffeine were sobering. Maybe she could guilt the Sheriff into buying her a greasy breakfast… lunch?

"What time is it?" she muttered, and upon realizing it was nearly noon, let out a curse. "Fuck, let's go report your murder then, I guess," she said, throwing back the second half of her coffee.

Growing up, the Sheriff Station had been a second home to Sloan. Her father, Hugo, had been a deputy and would often take a young bored Sloan along with him on quiet patrols. She would go after school, and they would go home together. After his death, she carried on the tradition, but with John Stilinski instead. Her father's best friend, her godfather, her adoptive father after Hugo's death.

She wondered what Hugo would think seeing his daughter walking into the station with a raging hangover, large sunglasses covering half her face, hair swept up messily. Her clothes were wrinkled and and slept in, still stinking of alcohol, and her olive green utility jacket was a size too big. It fit better when she first got it.

She scowled at the light, at the bark of laughter from somewhere in the bullpen.

"Looking good, Guerra!"

"Eat shit, Wesley," she snapped back, raising a middle finger at the deputy that called out to her. He had been a pain in her ass since they shared classes at Beacon Hills High School, and she couldn't help but wonder why the hell John hired him.

"Sloan," Clara Baird, the day receptionist greeted as she walked past the front desk. She had been there since Sloan started Junior High, and she looked the exact same, if not for the greying in her hair. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I need to talk to Juanito," she answered, pausing before entering the hallway that lead to the office. "He in?"

"Does he know you're coming?"

"That means he's in," Sloan decided, and carried on her way.

"You can't keep doing that!" Clara called after her. She ignored it.

The hallway would eventually lead to the holding cells, but about halfway down, it lead to the Sheriff's office. Sloan knocked once, leaning her head against the door in exhaustion as she did so, and felt the vibrations through her skull.

"Come in," a muffled voice called, and Sloan stepped in. Sheriff John Stilinski - endearingly dubbed Juanito by the Guerras - sat at his desk, looking over a variety of papers. Sloan recognized the format of reports, records, and, of course, the pictures. The lower half of Laura Hale's mutilated body. Not that John knew that.

"Sloan," he said in surprise upon seeing her, only for the surprised expression on his face to give way to concern. "Christ, kid, you look like crap."

Sloan sighed and walked in, grabbing the closest chair and dropping in it bonelessly. "Ask me how I feel," she told him flatly, and he scowled. The expression fell from his face as she went on, pulling off her sunglasses. The light in the office was softer, and Sloan was convinced that John did it on purpose. For days she walked in hungover to hell. Or maybe for his own days walking in hungover to hell. "You found a body last night."

"Aw, kiddo…"

Sloan ignored it to reach forward, scrambling for one of the pictures. She pulled it toward her and her stomach rolled at the sight of it. Laura was naked, probably had turned during the fight, and whoever killed her didn't give her the dignity of covering her.

"Shit," Sloan muttered, tossing the picture back and doubling forward, cradling her head, rubbing at her temples to combat the ever growing pounding there. She didn't look forward to going to the woods, to seeing if she could see what had happened.

A hand dropped on her shoulder, and she picked up her head to see John crouching next to her. Sympathy in his eyes. "You saw who it was already?" She nodded. He sighed. "You usually don't go drinking until after you've shared."

"Yeah well, seeing your childhood best friend's dead sister in your apartment kinda fucks you up," she said, and John went still.

"Laura Hale?" He looked to the picture. "This is Laura Hale? I didn't even know she was in town-"

"She came back a couple days ago," Sloan interrupted, and he looked at her sharply. "She… She hired me to look into the Fire." She paused as she pulled her messenger bag out from under her, as she had sat on it.

"We already closed that case," John said.

"You closed it too early," Sloan said bitterly, pulling out the beginning of her report for Laura. It was just her notes from her conversation with Laura, people she thought she should see and talk to. Her request to not go to the sheriff. But Laura was dead now, and Sloan knew that she was the last person to see her alive, and she wasn't about to be accused of murder because of a dead woman's wish.

"Sloan, all the evidence pointed-"

"Evidence can be fabricated, can be tampered with," Sloan cut in. She looked up at him, and he almost drew back at the sight of her. The dark circles that looked more like bruises under her eyes, the red veins that stood out against the white and dark brown of her iris. Seeing Laura had brought back horrible memories. Spirits black and charred and still screaming in agony before their earthly pain left them. "The Hales stayed for three weeks," Sloan said darkly. "Accidental deaths - even violent ones - never stay that long."

Three weeks they roamed Beacon Hills. One of Laura's cousins, a little girl only seven years old, kept following Sloan around asking her to play with her.

Sloan had her stomach pumped for alcohol poisoning for the first time after the Hales were killed.

"I'm not asking you to reopen the case," Sloan said softly, holding out the notes she had already taken. He looked at them reluctantly before letting out a sigh of defeat and taking them from her hands. "I'm just… letting you know what I'm up to. And I'm asking for help. Files from the fire."

John seemed conflicted. "Kid, you know I hate when you get into this stuff."

"Just following in my daddy's footsteps," she said with a weak smile. "Both my daddies." He huffed, patted her shoulder. "I'll be careful. And I'll bring you what I find."

"I don't suppose you already know what happened to Laura?"

Sloan hesitated. John knew about Sloan's Sight. He didn't quite understand it, but he knew, and he helped her when he could. But he didn't know about the Hales. Didn't know about werewolves. Didn't know about the creatures that resided in the realm of the living.

It wasn't her place to share that knowledge. Her's was the domain of the dead.

"I haven't gone yet," she answered instead. "I'll let you know what I find." She made to stand, and her knee ached, her back popped. "Keep an eye out for the rest of her."

"You need to rest, kid. And lay off the alcohol."

She let out a dry laugh. "I'll do both when I'm dead."

Sloan loved the preserve once. Most of her childhood was spent hiding amongst the trees. Not alone, of course. Derek Hale, former best friend, had always been with her. They played games of pretend - Of knights and dragons, of villains and heroes. The dead never followed her into the preserve, instead seeking her mother's attention back at their home closer to town. They had their very own Terabithia in the Beacon Hills Preserve, Derek and Sloan.

But even death eventually reaches Terabithia.

Sloan followed as Laura moved through the preserve. Like most dead, Laura moved as though she walked, but her feet never touched the ground, and she glided more than anything. It unnerved Sloan once. She's since gotten used to it.

They were deeper in the Preserve than Sloan has been since her junior high days, and much closer to the Hale house than she was comfortable with. She worried that that was where Laura lead her, and if it was, then Sloan was sorry, but she wasn't going to be touching and seeing anything. She'd been traumatized enough by those deaths.

"Are we almost there?" Sloan asked, and immediately regretted her sharp tone. Laura was leading her to the place of her death. That was never pleasant for the dead. But Laura seemed to understand Sloan's anxiety, and nodded. She pointed to a small incline, and Sloan nodded.

"Alright. Just over that?" Laura nodded. "Cool." She looked at Laura, who didn't make a move to go on. Returning was hard for most dead, and Sloan didn't blame her for hesitating. No one wanted to relive their deaths. That's what Sloan was for. "You don't have to stay for this. I can find it."

Laura seemed relieved, offering Sloan a small smile, and it struck her how much like her brother she looked like when she smiled.

"I'll bring out the Ouija board tonight," Sloan offered as Laura faded, and within seconds Sloan was alone. She didn't move for a moment, instead taking in her surroundings. She had since removed her sunglasses, leaving them behind in her car as the day grew cloudy. It might rain later.

She went up the incline, and let her shoulders drop upon realizing she would have to go down the other side of the small hill. Laura's other half wasn't there, but Sloan felt the familiar cloud of death. She eased her way down only to slip at the bottom. She landed on her back, and slid down the last couple feet. She hadn't hit her head, but she almost wished she had, so she'd have an excuse not to get back up. The tree branches above her danced, and she raised her arms out to them, grabbing at them aimlessly with her gloved hands.

Now was not the time to lay around playing dead. She had a job to do.

She forced herself up, but didn't bother brushing herself off. She felt twigs and leaves stick in her hair.

"Aesthetic," she said before laughing humorlessly. Her smile fell away when she noticed a mess in the dirt and leaves in front of her. Blood.

Laura had died there.

Sloan approached it carefully, not wanting to disturb the scene more than she knew she would. She pulled one of her gloves off and stuffed it in her pocket before kneeling just outside the circle of death.

Sloan hated doing this. But the sooner she did it, the sooner she'd get her answers. The sooner she'd help Laura move on. The sooner she'd get to put the whole thing behind her.

She took a deep breath and pressed her bare, shaking hand into the dirt and leaves.

It hit immediately. She felt light tremors wrack her body as her eyes rolled back into her head. Right before she dropped into the memory, she swore she heard a faraway, familiar voice call her name.

Gasping. Choking on blood. Grabbing at her throat, stop the bleeding. Stop herself from dying. Dying. She's dying. Fear, cold terror, floods her body. Above her, yellow eyes bleed crimson as she coughs her last living breath.

A boy. Shaggy hair, wheezing breath. Stumbling down the hill, landing hard. Fear. Running, falling, heavy weight holding him down. Pain searing through his side. Fiery crimson eyes.

"...oan! Sloan, come on, wake up, Sloan!"

She gasped, sucking in air and immediately coughing it out, eyes snapping open as she's pulled from the memory. Her vision was dark, blurry, and panic flared in her chest.

"Sloan, breathe, you're fine," the voice, familiar, painfully familiar, ordered her, and she sucked in another breath, squeezing her eyes shut. Phantom pain seared across her middle and her throat, and she swore she still felt the teeth clamped down on her side.

"That's it, just breathe."

Someone held her, she realized, as a hand brushed her hair from her face. The touch grounded her; touch always grounded her while she dove into memories. Mick and Beth used to hold her like that when she came out of them for their cases in L.A., and it made her ache for them. She opened her eyes, and this time she could see, though only blurry shapes. She blinked again, and her vision cleared.

She didn't recognize the face above her at first. The strong jaw threw her off, the lack of baby fat she had memorized. But there was no denying those eyes, the concern in them, and for a moment Sloan felt fifteen again.

Derek Hale loomed over her, but a different Derek Hale. A Derek Hale that should be on the completely opposite side of the country. That had no reason to be back in Beacon Hills the day after his sister's murder at the teeth of another werewolf.

It occured to Sloan that Derek was a werewolf.

She slammed her hand into his face, shoving herself away from him. The action took him by surprise, giving her a chance to roll away from him.

"Sloan, what the fuck-" he exclaimed in outrage, stopping short at the sight of the handgun she pulled free from her shoulder holster, which had been hidden by her oversized jacket. She was still kneeling on the ground, about a yard or so away from Derek. Closer than she wanted to be. The gun pointed at his face didn't have monkshood bullets, but she figured it'd down him long enough for her to get away.

"Sloan-"

"Show me your eyes," she ordered, voice cold as she slipped the gun off safety. His brows shot up in surprise.

"What-"

"Derek Hale, I don't wanna shoot you in the face after seeing you for the first time in six years, so you better show me your fucking eyes."

And he must have heard the tremor in her voice, seen her shaking hands. She fought to keep her vision clear, because she felt that she'd slip back into the memory at any moment, but not until she knew. She pulled back the hammer when he had yet to flash his eyes at her.

He raised his hands in a placating manner. "Your eyes, Derek, not your fucking hands." And that did it for him. His eyes flashed, and they flashed blue. Not yellow, which she was so accustomed to seeing, but not red, which she was so terrified of seeing. She at least knew where the blue came from.

She exhaled heavily, and lowered the gun. Derek still looked at her with something akin to fear in his eyes, but she ignored it as she lowered the hammer back safely and slipped the gun back to safety.

"Thanks," she said tonelessly, and let herself fall back in melodramatic exhaustion. "God, I'm so fucking tired," she whined, and wondered if Laura would mind if she napped mere feet away from where she had been killed.

"What the fuck was that about?" Derek demanded, and his voice was outraged. Sloan hummed; she had never heard him sound like that before, not even after Paige. "Why do you have a gun?!"

"In case a werewolf I haven't seen in years sneaks up on me while I'm in the middle of a memory drop," she muttered as she placed it back into its holster. And then decided that maybe she shouldn't be rude to him. She struggled to sit up, and once she did, looked at him closely.

He looked just about as unkempt as her. His clothes slept in, black leather jacket with too long sleeves. Dark circles under his eyes. Red rimmed eyes. He had been crying, she realized, and come to think about it, his voice had sounded so panicked when she came out of the drop.

Shit.

He knew.

"I." She swallowed as a sudden lump of emotion caught in her throat. "Derek, I'm so sorry." It came out barely a whisper. His face fell, shoulders slumping.

"You saw her?" he asked, and Sloan nodded.

"Last night… she appeared in my apartment."

He looked around hesitantly. "Is… is she-"

"She faded out before I came down," Sloan told him. "It's hard for them," she went on to explain. "They don't like reliving it."

"So you do it."

"So I do it."

"That's fucked."

"I know."

They sat in silence. Tense, awkward silence.

"You look like shit," Derek said finally.

"So do you."

"I drove all night."

"I drank all night." She paused and looked past him to the murder spot. "Did… did you move her?" He didn't answer, instead looking away. Sloan clicked her teeth. "Dammit, Derek." She stood, and swayed a bit once she was up. "Can you prove you drove all night?" she asked, and he looked at her in shock.

"Why?"

"Don't be an idiot. Your sister was murdered and you appear the day after?"

"I didn't kill her!" he snarled, standing, and Sloan took an unsteady step back. She didn't know him anymore. Just because he didn't kill Laura didn't mean he still hadn't changed. Shit, he had changed even before he had left Beacon Hill after the Fire.

"I know. And John will believe me when I tell him. But you still need to prove it, because the vision of an alcoholic will only go so far in the evidence room." She turned. "Speaking of alcohol…" She squeezed her eyes shut at the wave of nausea passed her by. She opened her eyes and stared up at the hill she had to climb to get back to her car. She'd nap when she got to it.

"You're just going to leave?" Derek demanded as Sloan started her uncertain climb. A pin prick of pain flared in her side, and she thought it was bullshit that she'd get a stitch now of all times.

"I did what I came to do," she called over her shoulder, voice breathy as she found it difficult to catch her breath. "I need a nap." She shook her head. She needed to hit the gym, more like. She'd never been so out of shape that going up a small hill fucked her up.

"You're fucking unbelievable," Derek said, disdain dripping from his voice. It would have hurt her seven years ago. It had hurt her seven years ago.

"So you've mention-" She grabbed at her side, legs giving out, and fell to her knees. Wheezing breath, shaggy hair-

"Sloan?" she heard Derek call out, uncertain.

"Fuck." Sloan doubled over, pressing her forehead to the forest floor as the Memory came rushing back to her. That… that was new. New and alarming. She opened her mouth to express her concern, but nothing came out. Her throat tightened, as though a phantom hand slowly squeezed around her neck.

Wheezing breath, shaggy hair. Searing pain in her side.

She tipped over on her side, gasping, clawing at her throat.

"Sloan!"

It seemed she inherited, if only for a moment, her memory's asthma. Panic welled in her chest. Shit, she thought. She'd never had a memory follow her after she stopped touching something. Shit. Scott McCall fucking killed me, the fucker.

Heyo! Ya girl Galanerd has no control when it comes to posting wips so here we are with a new story. Thanks for checking it out, and if you liked it, drop a review or fav/follow!

(Just a heads up, this is NOT going to be an OC/Derek story. Sloan and Derek are going to have a strictly platonic relationship for the entirety of this story.)

Stay Schway, Y'all.