Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to the Beeb,. All hail the mighty Beeb

The first postcard came about a week after the accident, and Annie had waved it in front of his face as he stepped into the kitchen.

"Her version of jam, I suppose," she said, and Mitchell pulled it from her fingers.

"Hi, Mitchell, I hope everything is well with you. A few teething problems at the new place, but everything is okay now - Fleur."

Mitchell noted the post stamp and flicked the postcard over. They were in Bath. He scrunched the postcard into a ball and flicked it into the bin. Annie eyes followed it from behind the rim of her cup.

"She lost her son," she chided gently. "Cut her some slack."

Mitchell looked at her, and forced a smile on his face. "You're right," he said. "Any chance of a coffee?" It was wrong, he knew, to use her own peculiar brand of OCD against her, but this was one secret he didn't want to share.

One secret he couldn't share.

He drank the coffee and left the house. Herrick was expecting him to let him into the hospital within the hour.

Three weeks later, he got another postcard. Mitchell spotted it on the floor, as he eased his shoulders into his jacket. There still seemed to be a dull ache in his chest, where the stake had gone in, although he knew that it was all in his head. He bent down and picked it up, and noticed that the postmark had changed. They were now in Manchester. He felt the imaginary pain in his chest grow sharper as he read the words.

"Had a little accident with a neighbour and needed to move on, but it's all right now, I think I've made him understand – Fleur."

"Who's it from," Annie carolled from the kitchen.

"It's from Fleur," he called back, not seeing any reason to lie.

"Poor thing, she must be so lonely," Annie said. "Imagine losing a child."

But all Mitchell could think was how could he have been so stupid, so weak. He should have left Bernie to die, ripped him out of his life like a band aid. Sure, it hurts like hell at first, but pain eases with time.

At least, he hoped so.

Ten days later, a third postcard came. The postmark hadn't changed this time, and Mitchell allowed himself a brief moment of hope. It was short lived. He read the scribbled message and slumped down into a kitchen chair. The note was short, but he got its meaning.

Everything has worked out for the best, Mitchell, thank you for everything you've done – Fleur.

Mitchell closed his eyes. It was a good forgery, but most kids can make a good copy of their mother's hand. Fleur was dead, and Mitchell had killed her, as surely as if he'd wrapped his hands around her neck himself; this time there was no quick fix, no way of making things right

It was only a matter of time; he'd better start sharpening the stake.