Author's Starter Notes: Yes, it's finally here, the sequel to Billy Stinson: Penny Lane—also some recommended reading are my fics A Penny for Your Thoughts and Horribleness. Now before I properly begin this fic I would just like to thank everybody for their support of Billy Stinson, my story actually achieved two Horrible Awards (Bash in Minds Award & the Evil Laugh in Progress Award) on LiveJournal! Woohoo! Thanks guys!

Also, I would like to mention that Everything You Ever (Billy in HIMYM category) has been deleted because the kickin' new crossover feature allows me to post ones story in two categories now. Wooo!!

Finally, I now realize that I flubbed the HIMYM timeline in my first fic—which I set A) in/around late March, making it the end of winter but still cold B) in between the episodes "Milk" and "Come On" (I needed Butterfield to have already been introduced). I, a heh, never bothered to check the airdates of these episodes before. They were in May, BTW. That's a my bad. I will try and fix that as best as possible this time around.

I've been rambling for far too long so now, without further adieu, I present Penny Lane.


Prologue: Here Lies Everything

Three Weeks, Four Days, One Hour Post Incident.

The only light guiding his path was the full moon hovering low in the otherwise blank sky—that and the thousand glittering lights of Manhattan across the river. The dark haired man shivered, though not from cold. The final bits of wintery chill had left the air some time ago and had been replaced by the warm breezes signaling summer's arrival. He was nervous. He'd never done this before, trespass on such a…peaceful place.

He gulped and continued forward with a paranoid eye looking ahead and soggy footprints trailing behind.

Cemeteries gave him the creeps.

He actually reached the proper headstone—in its tucked away corner—in less time than expected. Only a name, an alias, was carved into the gray mass marking the grave nobody else would ever want to visit.

This is bad, he thought repeatedly. This is bad, this is bad, this is bad.

This wouldn't end well—if it wasn't ended already. He knew that from the start. He tried to tell the Doc, but the guy just wouldn't listen. They were his final days and he refused to reason.

At least he got see his former best friend again, in his final days.

The phone call meant to rekindle their alliance had been a shock.

Restricted number. He shouldn't answer. It was probably just another telemarketer. For some unknown reason curiosity won over caution.


Shallow breathing replied. Great, another prank.

"Listen, dude, whoever you are—"

"Moist?" a meek voice asked.

He nearly fell over. Needed the grab the nearest chair for support.

"Holy cow…Doc…is that you?"

Silence, and then a tentative, "Yes…"

"Oh my God, man," he was happy, "it's good to hear your voice, how've you been?"

"I need your help," the demand was given quick.

A knot formed in Moist's stomach, "has the League lifted the ban?"

"This is beyond the League," the doctor urged, "you were the only one I could trust. I need to know if I still can."

Something was wrong, "Yeah, Doc, of course you can trust me. Is something wrong?"

There was no answer. Awkward breathing instead. Moist tried again, "Doc?.... What do you need?"

"Moist, I…" he could picture the man on the other line biting his lip as he thought of the correct words to say, "I'm going to kill myself."

"This is bad, Doc," Moist muttered aloud before plunging his slippery shovel into the earth.