It ought to be surreal. He's sitting on the forest floor with an armful of heartbroken werewolf, but all Barry feels is pain, his own heart squeezing tight enough that a sound escapes him when Derek tips forward into his arms.

"Gone," he says, stroking his hands down Derek's back, "Like Oliver and Felicity?" It's awful, and terrifying, and Barry tightens his arms. "Are you sure?" he asks. "I could search every inch of the city in less than an hour."