He's waited so many years for this. Played the fool over and over again, the beatnik kid with the goofy dog, with his buddies by his side, running from ghosts.

He pulls his hood over his head.

Not today.

The knife is cold in his pocket. He'd put it in his fridge, cooled it as far as possible, wanting to be sure they'd feel it. A cold knife would be worse than a warm one. His fingers curl round it, and then retreat. He mustn't warm it too much.

The closed blinds speak of a relaxed household about to turn in for the night. He swallows hard. Does he really, really want to do this? Is this what he's come to? Skulking around outside his own damn home at ten to midnight, swaddled in a bottle-green hoodie, splattered with scarlet?

The dog fell awkwardly, as though he was a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The knife bumped against his leg. A little friend in his pocket.

He'd petted the beast's head in its last few seconds of life. He was sure it had felt it. Its whimpers had died away soon enough.

His real friend is dead.

He in't stupid. He knows what would happen if the cops catch up with him. But he is, he feels, prepared. The cyanide is in an inside pocket somewhere.

Dig it a grave? No. It didn't deserve it.

He quickens his pace. His blood-slicked fingers touch the doorknob, caress it like a lover's cheek.

Wrench it so hard the wood around it splinters.

She runs out first, screams at the scarlet stains on his hoodie. She silences as he holds the knife to her neck.

Her quick breathing, stunted by him.

She clutches at the stairs as her knees collapse under him, his clever Bambi, felled like a rush. Innocence seeping out of her like the crimson dribbling onto the carpet, onto his shoes, onto her young, blooming body. Her heaving chest, coated with her life.

Screams. Someone wrestling with him.

He turns and buries the knife in a strong chest.

He watches as his lifelong friend drops to the saturated carpet, choking on his own blood. It feels... liberating. Hateful. But liberating.

The boy tries and fails to speak.

His eyes flutter closed, just like the dog's.

One more.

She is easy to dispatch, a simple slicing of the lily-white throat. She could almost be dead already.

His shoes squelch as he runs.

Running.

Running forever from what I've done.

My friends, gone, dead, murdered, by me, sent on their way simply because I thought they deserved it, the power, the power, the hate- no- NO-

They deserved it-

They were innocent-

I'm in the right-

I'm in the wrong-

I'm a saviour-

I'm a murderer-

I'm Norville Rogers.

His throat convulses as he swallows.

His world blurs, like his friend's bright blue eyes as he clutched at his chest, blood spilling from his lips.

So beautiful.

Dying...

Them.

Him.

It.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Shaggy bolts upright in bed, clutching at the sheets, hideously warm and wet, slick with liquid. For a terrifying moment he thinks he's lying in a blood-soaked bed- but it's just a night sweat.

Scooby nuzzles his hand.

"Scoob..."

Without another word he turns and buries his head in the dog's neck, desperately gulping in his best friend's smell. giving way to horrified, loving sobs as he hears the door opening, Fred's sleepy voice as he sits down on the bed and puts his hand on Shaggy's back, Daphne pressing a handkerchief into his trembling hand, Velma rubbing his shoulder.

Just a nightmare. I'm back with my buddies. My gang. My life.

A shadow slides into the doorway.

A cool burn in his back.

A scarlet rose blooming on his nightshirt.

"NO!"

Winning.

Losing.

Help.

"Raggy?"

"Old buddy, old pal, old friend, old buddy, old pal!"

No more.

Fred tucks a fresh sheet round him.

Daphne sponges his forehead.

Velma clutches his hand.

Scooby nuzzles his chin, licking his face, making him smile.

He's home, and the knowledge has never made him happier.

A/N: I really did not mean for it to be quite that bad! Well, hello Scoobers (I feel like such a stranger, I've been gone such a long time from this category!). I thought I'd post this to... well, just for you lot to enjoy it. Be grateful. ;) I know I have unfinished business with this category (that sounds vaguely sinister), but ever since Ashes to Ashes captured me I've been living, breathing and loving the 80s and Gene Hunt, so to be honest I lost track of this category completely. I hope you guys like it, please remember to give me some reviews- and I will update my other SD story at some point! Hugs for all reviewers, unless you'd prefer a radioactive ostrich (or both? Neither? I'll be quiet now). Jazzola