11:38

"Wow. That woman has almost as bad of luck as you."

Elena rung out her hair in the towel wrapped around her neck. She padded barefoot into the bedroom, frowning at her boyfriend's remark as he carelessly tossed his cell phone onto the desk.

"Who?"

"One Miss Meredith Fell."

"What happened?" Elena dropped the towel along the back of a chair.

"Just getting herself in a little werewolf trouble."

"Werewolves? Is she okay?"

"Physically, yes. Mentally, eh, questionable. Considering she would have to be insane to use vampire blood to cure some dying kid in a town without a pesky council, or me, to cover her ass. Apparently, the not-so-dead kid's got friends in furry places, or enemies, whatever, because some high and mighty werewolf came a knockin', making with the questions and the threats."

"He threatened her?" Elena stepped forward.

"Maybe. Possibly. I wasn't entirely paying attention."

"Damon," Elena moved in front of his pacing form.

"He gave her a good old fashioned scaring," Damon rolled his eyes. "So, Mer went and did some digging. Turns out, she really should have read the town brochure before moving, like the part where the 'wild animal' caused deaths are the highest in the state. "

"So more than one werewolf," Elena surmised, brandishing her hairbrush.

"Looks like it," Damon lifted his eyebrows and then let himself drop backward onto the bed.

"Wait, how does she know it's a werewolf problem and not vampire related?"

"Well, for one, she's seen them in the daylight without any witchy rings. Two, the one that confronted her didn't try to compel her into telling him what he wanted. Easy conclusion."

"So what now, Damon?" Elena set the brush down and began collecting her clothing.

"What now what?" The vampire sat up at a begrudging pace.

"What do we do?" Elena twisted her arms across her stomach stiffly.

"Do? Why are we supposed to do anything?"

"It's Meredith," Elena folded herself down next to him.

"And it's a group of werewolves. Vampires and werewolves don't mix well in case you've forgotten."

"Neither do werewolves and innocent people," Elena lowered her chin while lifting her forehead. "And if they find out that she has connections to vampires -"

"So we'll overnight her some wolfsbane and shock collars," Damon waved a hand. "Mer's a big girl."

"She's helped save our lives." Elena stood stubbornly.

"That's what doctors do, Elena."

"What about Ric?"

The room fell heavy with silence at that.

"Alaric's gone, but he loved Meredith. If not for her, then for him. She was a part of this. Of us. As much as I never wanted to be a vampire, it's better than being dead. Without her, I would be. Without her, we would have never had a chance to be together. Alaric might not have been happy again after losing Jenna. We owe her. We've lost too many people. It's the right thing to do."

"Stop, please. You're beginning to sound like Stefan."

The comment caused another beat of silence as Elena stiffened.

"How – have you talked to him?" She hedged, swallowing the lump growing in her throat.

"I've told you, Elena, he'll come back when he's ready."

It ended up being far easier than Derek had originally thought to keep Stiles out of trouble for 48 hours. Because when hour 49 rolled around, the teenager still had yet to awaken. There were no signs of fangs or scales or anything of the supernatural sort. There was plenty else that was worrying, though. Sure, when Scott and Derek had first seen the kid, his bruises were gone and he appeared healed. But it wasn't a few hours later before the boy spiked a fever, sweating and shaking and vomiting, all while never once regaining full consciousness. There were glimpses; a sliver of those amber irises, a groan for his father. Once again, medically, it didn't make much sense. Melissa said it was like his body was rejecting something. Derek couldn't help but think back to the new doctor and their conversation, but she was nowhere to be found. Scott had even gotten Deaton into Stiles' room for a second opinion after visiting hours. The veterinarian seemed to be just as clueless as the rest of the doctors.

"Doc, you got to give me something," Scott fell back in the chair normally occupied by Sheriff Stilinski.

The teenager, granted with much help from Melissa, had finally convinced the man to go home and get some proper rest.

"I'm sorry," Deaton shook his head and lifted Stiles' blanket back up over the boy. "There is nothing here for me to find, at least, nothing that I am able to find."

"What does that mean?" Scott leaned forward.

"If something supernatural is at work here, whatever caused it left no evidence," The vet sighed. "There are some herbal mixtures perhaps, certain rituals, that could offer such healing, but rare does not even begin to describe how difficult the ingredients and a person with the power to use them would be to find."

"I – I know that voice," Scott looked up at his boss. "You know something."

"No," Deaton finished packing his bag. "I have my suspicions, but unfortunately, none of them make any sense. I'll see what I can find." Deaton slipped the strap over his shoulder and paused at the look on his employee's face. "Scott, I promise, I'll do everything I can. Just have patience, and perhaps a little faith."

After that, Scott had dove into what Stiles always dubbed "research mode". Everything he found had the same answers, none. There were countless stories of miraculous recoveries, especially brain damage. People who had been shot in the head, legally dead for several minutes, in vegetative states for years and more. Some writers attributed the survivals to religion. Others thanked scientific advancements. Theories of the supernatural variety were few and far between. After five straight hours, Scott had slammed his laptop shut. Stiles was the one who always did the research, who had the answers, solved the the impossible questions. Besides him, they're group had Lydia. She was a little preoccupied helping Jackson, but still managed to reread the Bestiary and a few other texts in hopes of helping.

Because two days after Stiles had rammed his Jeep through a wall and then nearly taken a digger to a cement floor, he still hadn't woken up.

On day three, at 11:38 in the morning, the power in the hospital flickered off for just a second. It was so brief that those who even noticed it didn't think anything of it. There was a particular group of people who definitely were a bit too distracted to even care about some electrical glitch. Too overjoyed and confused and worried and hopeful. Too busy crying and screaming and hugging and picking up their phones to send out texts and calls of updates long awaited.

Because at 11:38, in the emergency room, Nate Lytle's doctor was interrupted in calling the man's time of death by the heart monitor proving him wrong. At 11:38, a baby without a name in the NICU began breathing again. At 11:38, the doctors of the unnamed baby's mother were downstairs, finally able to stop the bleeding from the car accident and resulting premature birth. At 11:38, Jeannette Longline, 83 years old and in a persistent vegetative state after a stroke, squeezed her husband's hand.

Because at 11:38, in a quiet room on the fourth floor, Stiles Stilinski opened his eyes.