musicalluna

Shawn’s mind went blank for the first time in his life. He stared up at Bell, but his brain couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing, couldn’t even register what he was looking at.

"Oh, hey Shawn," Buzz said, walking past him.

Shawn’s brain restarted with a sputter and he jerked his eyes back to Buzz. The young officer’s eyes moved from Shawn to the man standing in front of the pyschic, and Shawn knew that was it, it was all over, and—

Buzz kept walking. His eyes went back to the paper he was holding in his hand, flicking away from the serial killer in their police station, and Shawn realized, much to his horror, that no one, not a single person, knew what Bell looked like.

Except him.

Bell wasn’t smiling when Shawn looked back at him. He was staring, unmoving, seemingly unperturbed by the milling police officers walking past them, and his gaze said he hated the man in front of him more than he had hated anything in the world.

Shawn’s breath caught in his throat. He was so completely and utterly screwed.

Bell put his hand in his hoodie pocket, jerked his head and said gruffly, "Move." It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand the implications of the hand placement, or the puckering of the material as what could only be a gun pointed upwards towards Shawn’s chest. The psychic immediately turned and started walking back the way he had come, Bell moving up behind him. They walked past the others, and Shawn wanted nothing more than to do something—anything—to get their attention, but he knew, without any doubt, that he would be dead before they even turned around. They reached the end of the hall and Bell jabbed him in the back with the gun, muttering, "Inside, now."

"Hey, hey, easy on the merchandise," Shawn muttered, and then grimaced as Bell jabbed him again, growling.

They moved into Karen’s office and Bell shut and locked the door behind them before giving Shawn a shove. "Sit down, there, in the chair."

Shawn obeyed, sitting down in Karen’s chair, his hands up non-threateningly. His first thought was that if Bell didn’t kill him, the Chief would. How was he going to get himself out of this one? He was in deep trouble, and he didn’t have the cavalry coming to his rescue any time soon. They were right outside, completely unaware of his current predicament. Bell was psychotic, and dead-set—okay, bad choice of words— intent on getting revenge. This was the man who murdered, in cold blood, eleven officers because they had graduated when he couldn’t.

Only, he hated Shawn more, now.

Bell cocked his gun, and Shawn suddenly realized that if he didn’t do something right now, his insides would be splattered all over the Chief’s office in a matter of seconds. How was it that no one ever looked in this stupid office?! How?! He was going to die because people were afraid of the Chief, or something ridiculous, and now he was babbling because he was dead and—

Outside, someone dropped something, cursing, and for a split second, Bell glanced over his shoulder.

It was enough.

Shawn lunged forward, grabbing the gun and yanking. Bell immediately whipped around, the back of his hand slamming into Shawn’s cheek, his high school ring cutting into it viciously. Shawn cried out, dropping the gun with a clatter, his hand reflexively moving to clutch the now bleeding gash.

Bell fell to his hands and knees, grabbing for the gun, and Shawn threw himself on top of him, getting a hold of it just as he squeezed the trigger. Two deafening shots went off, raining plaster down on them, and suddenly every head in the station was turned toward the office.

At his desk, Lassiter’s hand immediately went to his holster. "What in the hell…?"

Comprehension hit almost simultaneously. Officers, weapons drawn tentatively, finished pulling them out, rushing towards the office as those standing around Lassiter’s desk did the same. The detective’s long legs had him at the head, but it was Gus, jaw dropping, expression horrified, who pushed forward past them, trying to get to the room where Shawn was currently trying to wrestle the gun away from Bell.

"Shawn!" he shouted, horrified.

"Mr. Guster!" Vick snapped, grabbing him by the sleeve of his coat. "Stay back."

"What do you mean, ‘stay back’?" he cried, "We have to get him out of there!"

"Stay back," she snapped again, but she was already turning to the other officers already at the glass walls of her office, roaring, "GET HIM OUT!"

Juliet darted past Lassiter, grabbing the door knob. She shook it, desperately, eyes panicked as she turned back to the others. "He’s locked it!" She jerked, turning back as a potted plant hit the floor, exploding in shards of pottery and dirt, turning just in time to see the gun go skittering under the desk. Bell slammed Shawn up against it, driving it several inches across the floor. "Do something!" she shrilled at her senior partner.

Lassiter raised his weapon grimly, aiming for Bell. "No problem."

"No!" Vick said, pushing his hand back down firmly. "You’ll hit Spencer!" Inside the room, Shawn managed to shove Bell off of him and he was scrambling around the desk when Bell caught him around the ankle and he fell, hard. A gasp rippled throughout the crowd of officers.

"Then I’ll break the damn door down!" Lassiter snarled and twisted, slamming a foot into the glass. Juliet jumped back, looking behind her and rushing off as several other officers joined him a half-second later, feet flying as they smashed them, again and again into the wall. The door rattled, but the tempered glass held. He cursed and tried not to flinch as he saw Spencer take one to the solar plexus and crumple against the desk, an unmistakeable expression of terror flitting across his face as he found himself unable to breathe. He slammed his foot into the door again and the tiniest crack appeared at the point of impact. He swore again and leaned back for another try.

"Hurry up!" Gus cried and Lassiter turned a nasty glare on him, only to realize that he was shouting at Juliet, grabbing the chair from her grasp. She let it go and Gus immediately darted towards Lassiter. "Here," he said urgently.

"Fine," Lassiter snapped, grabbing the chair and pulling it back in one smooth motion. He smashed it against the door, cracks spidering out.

Inside the office, Shawn managed to dodge a blow, staggering to his feet, but Bell recovered rapidly from the miss and grabbed the back of his shirt, heaving hard. Shawn lost his balance and his head cracked, hard, against the corner of the desk. He dropped to the ground, dazed and unaware of the blood now streaming down the side of his face. At the door, Lassiter continued pounding away at the glass as the other officers kept at it, but all it did was burst out into cracks and refuse to break.

Karen was screaming at her men, Juliet darting back and forth as she grabbed different chairs and other objects to help the officers at the glass, but all Gus could do was simply look on in helpless horror as Bell lugged Shawn to his feet by the front of his shirt and threw him into the table on the right end of the room, sending Vick’s plants flying and scattering dirt everywhere. Before Shawn could gather his wits enough to move, Bell had grabbed a hold of him again and had shoved him up against the glass window next to the door brutally, rattling the frame. Lassiter reared back, startled, and froze, his gaze locking with Shawn’s for a split second. For one frozen moment, they stared at each other.

A streak of blood arched suddenly across the glass as Bell pulled him away again and flung the psychic into the desk with enough force to turn it, the heavy furniture groaning as it scraped across the floor. "What the hell is up with this glass?" Lassiter snarled, dropping the chair as his foot smashed into the glass again, the spider’s web growing more dense.

Bell flew at Shawn, forcing him even further up on the desk and dislodging the remaining items even as Shawn’s feet lost contact with the ground. He forced his arm against Shawn’s throat and his first reaction was to gasp—and he panicked when he couldn’t. He clawed at Bell’s arm, trying to dislodge him, but only managed to scratch himself as he tried desperately to get even the tiniest gasp of air. He kicked feebly, trying to get some kind of leverage—any kind, his head swimming, and Bell’s face freckled with blinding white spots. With a jolt, he realized he was dying. It was then, finally still enough to hear him, that he realized Bell had been muttering furiously under his breath throughout the struggle.

"…have to kill…! Ruins everything—always ruins everything—can’t do anything without you screwing it up… You have to die!" he hissed and Shawn felt his own hands slackening.

Outside the office, the others were beginning to kick more helplessly, desperately, as they realized that Shawn was dying, choked to death in their own station. "Damn it all!" Lassiter roared furiously.

"Detective Lassiter," Vick finally snapped, realizing that now they had stopped moving they weren’t going to get a better opportunity. "Shoot him."

"Yes, ma’am," he said, and his wasn’t the only gun that came up, swiftly and deadly.

He fired.

The glass exploded inward, showering across the office as three or four shots went off. Bell jerked as the bullets struck him, and he dropped, now literally dead weight, his blood smearing all down the legs of Shawn’s jeans as he slid to the ground.

For a long second, as the officers brought down their weapons, all that could be heard was Shawn’s desperate attempts to suck in air.

Lassiter immediately moved forward, kicking glass aside from the shattered door and wall, shoving Bell’s body aside as he leaned over the psychic. Shawn was gasping, his hands moving to his throat, scrabbling frantically—it still felt like there were hands there—crushing—making it so hard to breathe…!

"Shawn!" Gus cried, and Lassiter jerked his head over to see that the man’s friend had already pushed his way past the officers rushing back and forth, forcing back other people in the station and moving chairs and glass. He reached Lassiter’s side quickly and both men each grabbed a hand, pulling them away from his throat. Shawn whimpered and had no idea that his voice wasn’t working properly as he tried to plead with them, ‘No—no—stop—make it stop…!’ He struggled to bring his hands back to his throat.

Behind them, Vick had begun barking orders, glancing furtively at Shawn when she could spare a second. O’Hara stood off to the side, staring worriedly as she talked to the dispatchers, demanding the presence of an ambulance. She obviously wanted to join them, but it was more important right now to get the paramedics down here as soon as humanly possible.

Shawn struggled against Lassiter and Gus, desperately fighting to sit up and gain some control. Gus glanced worriedly at Lassiter and with a curt nod, they pulled Shawn into a sitting position on the desk, legs dangling off the edge.

He gasped, his rapid breathing stalling for a moment, and Lassiter gave his arm a rough squeeze. "Breathe, Spencer!"

Shawn did, with a horrible wheezing sound, and both Gus and Lassiter breathed their own sighs of relief, trying to ignore the ominous sound, simply happy that Shawn was breathing at all. And then Shawn began trying to talk.

At first, the sounds were unintelligible, masked by the breathless gasping.

"Spencer!" Lassiter barked, moving so that he could be directly in his line of vision. "Quit being an idiot! You shouldn’t talk right now." Shawn stared wild-eyed up at him, his hand moving to touch his throat and Lassiter had to resist the urge to turn away. There were small red spots in his eyes, and after ten years on the job, he knew exactly how close that meant he had come to dying.

"Now listen to me, Spencer," he said firmly, "Just breathe okay? Focus on that. In…and out…in…and out…"

Shawn shook his head, his breathing on the verge of hyperventilating, and words began pouring roughly out of his mouth. "I’m sorry—so sorry—I—" He gasped, his eyes going wide again as his breathing caught, but the words kept coming as soon as he was able to suck in another breath. "—I shouldn’t—shouldn’t have blamed—stupid—"

"Spencer, stop!" Lassiter said sharply. "Knock it off! It’s done, okay? Now shut up and worry about breathing, damnit!"

"…I had t—to make—right, better—no one—I—just sorry, sorry—so—"

"Shawn!" Gus grit, teeth bared, but the expression on his face was desperate as he glanced at the detective.

"Spencer!" Lassiter snapped. He grabbed the rattled man’s arm, forcing his hand flat against the middle of his chest. "Breathe with me," he ordered. "Now, feel my breath—" he sucked in a large, over-the-top breath, "In," he said. "Now out," he released the breath slowly. "Now again," he said, and repeated the actions.

Shawn’s breathing slowed, matching the detectives as he fell silent, gasping in and out for breath. Lassiter nodded encouragingly, making sure the psychic saw him.

"Good. Now just stay calm, all right? The paramedics will be here any second—"

Lassiter looked up, hearing Vick say, "Over there—" and he exhaled, exchanging a relieved look with Gus as he backed off to allow the paramedics access. He had to stop, however, when he realized Shawn’s hand was still firmly wrapped around his arm.

He looked at him critically before gently prying his hand off. "You’ll be taken care of, Spencer," he said, and turned, moving to Vick for direction.

The paramedics moved in and Gus too moved back, still on the outskirts of the activity around his friend so he could keep an eye on what they were doing as he pulled out his cell phone. He’d better call Shawn’s father and get it over with. He glanced over as the medics crowded around Shawn, quickly readying him for being transferred to the gurney and then the ambulance. The whole thing made Shawn’s head spin.

"All right," one of the paramedics said. "Let’s get him stabilized and get out of here." He lifted up a neck brace and Shawn freaked out.

"NO!" The word came out mangled, and barely audible, but he got his point across as he threw his arms up, shoving them away and staggering off of the desk. He managed to make it three feet, before collapsing as everything spun wildly around him. One of the EMTs grabbed him around the middle, but the action was too late and they both ended on their knees. The paramedic hissed as glass dug into her knees, but Shawn was oblivious to it.

"What the—" Vick looked down, surprised, and frowned.

"What is going on?!" Gus demanded, hanging up his phone. Karen bent, putting a hand to Shawn’s shoulder and he flinched away, his arms up protectively around his neck.

"We just tried to put a neck brace on him and he—"

Karen sighed heavily, but it was Lassiter who snapped, "You idiot. He was just nearly strangled to death!"

The medic stared blankly, his mouth dropping open. "I—nobody said anything about strangulation!"

"Shut up, Bert," the woman on the floor hissed at him, arms moving from the psychic’s stomach, but Lassiter was hardly impressed.

"Oh, right. His neck is just covered in scratches and bruising because he fell and bumped his head," the detective said dryly. "I can see your medical education really paid off."

"Look," Vick said, breaking in impatiently, "Just get him to the hospital." She turned to Shawn and her tone became gentle, almost motherly. "Shawn?" He refused to look at her, and she took his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. "Shawn. Nobody is going to hurt you. They’re trying to help, okay? They won’t put the brace on. Now please, you have to go to the hospital."

He nodded reluctantly and her hand moved to rest on the back of his head. She gestured to Lassiter and Gus and they immediately understood, moving forward to help Shawn to his feet. His legs trembled violently, and in the end, they weren’t so much helping him up as holding him up.

"Where do you want him?" Lassiter asked gruffly, and the woman paramedic pointed to the gurney set up near the desk as she got to her feet.

They carried him over, helping him sit down and the medics moved in again, more cautiously this time. "Try not to forget," Lassiter added derisively, "He’s been strangled." The medics nodded, supporting Shawn’s precariously swaying form as they fixed him with an oxygen mask and bandaged the wound on his head.

"Let’s lie you back down now, shall we?" the women said with a kind smile and she assisted him in laying down. They strapped him in and she looked up at the others. "All right, let’s get him out of here."

As they were heading out the now open doors of Karen’s office, the paramedic glanced down and was immediately alarmed by the fact that Shawn was quiet and still, his breathing slow. "Mr. Spencer? Mr. Spencer, can you hear me?" she said urgently and then stopped the proceeding of the gurney, laying her head on his chest. Around them everyone stalled, concern growing on their faces.

"Unbelievable," she breathed, and when she looked up, a smile was fighting its way onto her features.

"He’s asleep," she said, and grinned.