A/N I am in NO way saying that suicide is ok or that you should ever give up on someone trying to kill themselves, but this wouldn't leave me alone so I had to write this.


It was her laugh, more precisely the way she laughed that let him now he'd lost her, it was hollow and somewhat crazed.

She was sitting so nicely on the edge of the bridge, one leg tucked under her body and the other swinging over the side. There was a gun in her hand, laying lazily in her lap. Her head was leaned back against the light post she was resting against. It illuminated her body, every bone that stuck out, every bruise in different stages of healing. Shawn didn't want to let her go, not when she was a victim of cruelty, but she was to far in her own head, he could see that.

"I wish you wouldn't," he told her sadly. He wouldn't tell the police he didn't actively beg her to not pull the trigger, he was fairly sure he could get arrested for that.

She looked at him with a smile, like his assurance was all she needed, but she didn't raise her hand.

"You have more to say," she stated.

"I do," he confirmed, nodding his head as he shoved his hands into his pockets. He stayed silent for a minute before continuing. "There is something you need to know, someone will cry for you. I will. I'll be at your funeral and I'll cry for you. I'll put flowers on your grave every year on this day. I will remember you."

She smiled at him, her fingers twitching around the barrel of the nine millimeter. "I like daisies," she told him, and he nodded.

She raised the gun and the bang was louder then he expected. He kneeled before her and waited, waited for someone to come running, to yell in horror and cry, but no one did. Even in death no one came looking for her.

He called Jules and told her what happened.

When she arrived with Lassiter, the coroner, CSI's, his father, Chief Vick, and Gus, they found him sitting on the ground with his back to the ledge she'd been sitting on, his legs bent and his arms resting on his knees. Her body lay next to him and he was sprayed in her blood. He looked hollow, afraid.

After he was checked over he gave his statement. He lied and said he tried to stop her and she did it anyway. He went to his apartment alone even though everyone had offered him a place to stay for the night, insisting he shouldn't be alone, even Lassiter.

Shawn was gone the next day, nothing but a note on the kitchen table. His bike was gone and so was the backpack he always kept for his road trips. He didn't say when he'd be back, but those that knew him best knew he'd be gone for a long time. They knew he might not even come back.

They sold his stuff like they do every time he leaves, and like every time it's always just enough to pay off the remainder of the lease.

Gus closed the Psych office.

It took four years for Gus to notice the pattern. He missed a couple anniversaries, but he stopped by the "suicide Jane Doe's" grave around the time of her death and Shawn's latest road trip whenever he could. It didn't occur to him that Jane Does don't get flowers.

He laughed the first time he noticed them, happy to finally put his mind at ease. It meant he was still alive, wherever he may be.

Every year on the anniversary of her death the caretaker saw a man in the early morning dressed in a biker's jacket lay daises on the Jane Doe's grave.