A/N: This is a companion of sorts to my story "And Death", but it isn't necessary to read that to understand this one. It's another sad one, guys. So warnings in advance. I thought I'd do some other POVs, because I really actually liked writing in second person. The title is from a song by Laurena Segura that I listened to on repeat while writing. (You should look her up on youtube- she has a few absolutely exquisite songs).

So I hope you guys like this, although it's kind of sad too.

Thanks.

Disclaimer: I don't own Psych, or the song "Fireflies of Montreal".

Warning: Character Death

When the day comes, it will seem bizarre. Like some crazy dream, except it will be more like a nightmare.

You will wake up in your apartment. You will open your eyes to the strangled beeping noise of an alarm clock hit one too many times by the gun that is always under your pillow.

(You will remember how badly you should get the stupid thing fixed. And then you'll hit it again, but you will still get up, and you will rub your eyes in the room darkened from the lack of sun- it will be very early in the morning.)

You will grab your gun, your phone, and you will get dressed.

You will eat some toast, grab it on the way out to your car.

(And yes, Victoria always told you to eat more than toast for breakfast. And no, the fact that you haven't done much else for food since is not some kind of mental 'eff you' to her, not some way of rebelling against her, against the pain that is still there, no matter what that crackpot therapist says.)

And you will drive slowly to the police station, admire the sunrise.

(Because, no matter what that idiot psychic says, you aren't actually a robot. Even Santa Barbara's finest can appreciate some things).

You will be in a particularly good mood that morning, not knowing that everything is about to go to hell.

And so, fifteen minutes later, you will stride into the station with a grin on your face. You will bark orders to McNab, nod to the chief, and you will sit down in that comfy chair you bought with your money (because damn it all if you don't think that the Head Detective deserves to have some small comforts).

And it will feel good.

But then, a mere ten minutes from when you will arrive, your partner will burst into the room, and she will look more frightened than she has in a long while.

And you will glance up, concerned against your will. Wordlessly, O'Hara will slap down a file, and after a few minutes of skimming through it, you will get the gist.

You will stand up suddenly, and you will lock eyes with Juliet, who will be biting her lip, obviously trying to be patient.

You will realize that besides fear, you can also see pure trust in your partner's eyes. And you will kick it into gear, because there is no way in hell you'll let her down.

(Because, though you may not always show it, you really do care. You do have a heart.)

You will work furiously for the next hour, work like there is no time, and there really won't be, though you won't know that.

You will focus.

(And no, it won't have anything to do with the twist in your stomach when you read that file. It won't be concerning the cold, piercing, actual fear that you shoved to the back of your head when you read that Shawn had been taken. It will only be because this is how you solve cases.)

And then, at some point in the time that will feel too fast, sped up like some cruel trick of God's, you will realize.

You will, after a rushed explanation to O'Hara, call Guster.

Your mouth will be dry, and pure anxiety will seem to be mixing with your own blood, coming stronger and stronger with every beat of your galloping heart.

Because you will be aware of how close these two men are, and this is a phone call that you will really not want to make.

And Juliet will notice your apprehension, because she will stand in front of you, lay one hand on your shoulder, trembling from fear as well, and tell you that he deserves to know, that maybe he can help.

And you will swear when it goes straight to voicemail, but you will leave a message nonetheless.

The rest of the day will be a blur. You will be working nonstop, chasing down leads only to be let down, yelling at anyone who crosses you.

(Because, though you would never tell him, Shawn really is your friend, and you will know who has taken him, you know what they are probably doing to him.)

You will try to get a hold of Gus, calling him several more times.

(You will even drive down to his stupid pharmaceutical place, only to be told that Mr. Guster has just left on his route, but can they take a message?)

And you will see your partner slowly breaking, gradually cracking under the terror and pressure.

You will be there to drive her to the hospital when they call about a John Doe, and you will hold her hand as she cries on the way, while driving like a maniac.

You will wait in the big white, crowded room, wait for any news stoically. You will mostly just sit in an uncomfortable chair, with interludes of talking to Henry when he arrives, and of comforting O'Hara at the moments that it becomes too much to bear for her.

Guster will not arrive for a long while, but when he does, Juliet will launch herself into his arms. You will not be able to look at him, at the horror that you will be sure is etched onto his face.

The doctor will come and tell you that they are ready, she will ask you to follow her.

You will not restrain yourself or the tears that will begin to pour down, and you will barely acknowledge the tears and hysteria of the other three.

You will follow this woman into a small, white, metallic room, leaving Guster at the door. The room will smell like death somehow, and it will only be the knowledge of what you have to do that holds you together, that and the fact that you are Carlton Lassiter, the man who doesn't ever show any weakness.

(But you will never have wished more fiercely that this were true, that you were Carlton Lassiter, the man with a stone heart, the robot, the man who doesn't have friends, doesn't need or want them.)

Juliet will be crushing your hand, and her sobs will echo so loudly that she soon will leave to go outside, because she will realize that she can't handle it either.

And that will leave you with Henry Spencer, who will be completely silent. You will both identify the body as Shawn Spencer.

You will not have to look at the corpse for long, but those moments will stretch out for much too long. And you will see too much, see the cold, ghostly, pale man, a dark, sinister hole in his chest. It will be a shell of a man, however, and you will have to remind yourself that it ever once held life.

(Because that damn Spencer nearly always had a smile on his face, but this thing will be expressionless. Lifeless.)

And you will finally have to leave the room too.

You will run past O'Hara, Guster, and Mr. Spencer, who will have left the room a few moments before.

You will sprint to the nearest trashcan-looking thing, and vomit.

But you won't be able to appreciate the irony of it- the fact that the great Carlton Lassiter, well-known automaton with a stomach and heart of steel, has just thrown up because of a body.

Because nothing will seem funny for a long while after this.