A/N: I hated writing this chapter. If only because of my terrific, Shawn-whumping ending. Go on, grab your pitchforks and torches, I deserve it. Just don't…hurt my hands or face. Kinda need it to keep writing.
Disclaimer: I owned an oatmeal raisin cookie, but I ate that. So…yeah, I don't own very much in this or any case. No sue?
Warning: Few mentions of blood, still my sick mind.
Chapter: Invincibility Takes Sacrifice

Shawn was utterly pale against the white sheets; brown hair that was normally always spiked now fell into his eyes. A couple of scratches and bruises littered him, and a nurse had informed them that he had drugs in his system. He looked troubled, even in a semi-coma, and often spasmed against the sheets. Abigail was at his right side, hand clasped in two of her own. Next to her, Gus was seated, but he'd slumped over onto the bed and was now softly snoring.

Henry was across from them, slumped in his chair with his arms crossed as he gazed at his son. He was informed that death normally occurs a few minutes after the trauma, and they were optimistic that Shawn would survive. But still, he had not moved as he watched Shawn's chest move up and down gently. Fear had gripped his heart, and he didn't want to leave his boy's side.

Juliet was in a corner, seated in the uncomfortable recliner, and wringing her hands nervously. She had researched all she could on SIS—per request Henry Spencer—and found much the same that the doctor said. After that, she had gotten more and more worried. She hadn't slept for over forty hours, and the bags had begun to show under her eyes, exhaustion creating red little veins in her eyes. Carlton stood next to her, face remaining stoic as he watched the heart monitor vigorously. The only indication of worry was the slight shake in his hands and the way his breath would hitch occasionally should Shawn's heart slow even one beat.

This was a battle none of them could fight for Shawn, no matter how much they wanted to.

It was dark when Shawn finally opened his eyes—though the small light that the moon and stars gave off through the window was enough to give him a pounding headache. He sucked in a breath, blinking several times before his vision cleared. Biting his lip to keep in a groan, Shawn moved to sit up until he noticed the man sitting in a chair next to his bed.

Shawn felt panic grow inside him as he realized he didn't know where he was or how he got there or who that man was. He felt—momentarily forgetting all training he had from his father—a sharp pain in his chest as he began to hyperventilate. His arm's started twitching of their own accord and suddenly he had no control of anything—and so he did the only thing he could. He screamed bloody murder.

For weeks, months, years after he'd be embarrassed of this fact. But at that moment, nothing mattered but his safety. Keep her safe, and I'll protect your friends and family. It was a dim thought—a memory?—in the back of his head, but it hurt so bad that he just screamed harder. The screaming, already, had caused a flurry of action.

Men and women in scrubs and white lab coats had rushed in, trying to restrain him. The man in the chair had jumped to his feet and the light was on, though Shawn didn't get to see his face. He noticed, briefly and painfully, that some other people had entered the room in civilian clothes—no, not civilian clothes. Lassie's clothes. He knew, even if Shawn had just seen a glimpse, Lassie was there.

"Lassie? Lassie, is that you?" He didn't know when he'd stopped thrashing or screaming and just started to sob freely. The doctors and nurses, slightly in shock, parted from Shawn as Lassie came up.

"Shawn? Are you okay, can you remember anything?" He sounded frantic—as if it was very important that Shawn do so.

But Shawn shook his head slightly—wincing at the immediate, sharp pain he felt—much to Carlton's dismay. "I-I tried but it hurts, it hurts too badly. Where am I, Lassie, what happened?"

Lassiter frowned slightly, glancing at one of the doctors. The doctor nodded, coming forward to whisper in his ear. Relief lit in Lassiter's eyes, and Shawn couldn't help but wonder what was said. Lassiter turned back, leaning against the bed slightly.

"Shawn, what do you remember? I need you to remember as much as you can before I tell you anything."

Shawn frowned, glancing around the room. He realized, with a start, that it was his father that had been sitting next to him. In the background, crowded by the door, were Abigail and Jules and Gus. The clock—analog on the wall—stated 2:38, which meant that someone had blown up the sun or they were talking AM. The beeping of the heart monitor, the scratchy blanket and clothes, the IV drip attached to his arm attested for the fact he was in the hospital. Everyone, he noticed, had become deathly silent as he took in his whereabouts and began to think.

The sharp pain had lulled somewhat—he took it for granted that it was because the nurse had changed the IV bag to some drug or another—to a dull throb. His lips were chapped and he felt slightly light-headed.

The blood poured from Rose's severed head, drenching the pale arms that held it so tenderly. Sobs reached his ear as bile rose in his throat.

Shawn felt his eyes widen slightly—quickly disguising it as a wince—as he began to recall things he wished he never would. The images, engraved in his mind, flashed before his eyes. The walls and ceiling had begun to drip blood, and Shawn felt the strong urge to retch. He let his head fall black, closing his eyes tightly in pain—physical and emotional.

Whimpering slightly, he managed to choke out a sentence. "Last thing I remember is being hit over the head in my apartment after we talked to Levi." It was a lie, but it didn't matter. Protect Levi, protect himself, protect his friends and family. It was a simply command, and he wasn't going to ignore it. Not after that.

Near the door, he heard Abigail let out a slight sob and suddenly he felt his insides constrict tightly. Why was she crying? Was it bad that he didn't remember—pretended not to, at least?

"Shawn, you were abducted by our killer. You-we think you witnessed a murder, our killer, and that you're suffering from Second-impact Syndrome. There was a chance of brain damage, so we're unable to tell if you'll regain your memory, but you actually survived and that's good for now." Lassiter smiled shakily. "Do you know where you are and who's around you?"

Shawn frowned slightly—feeling as though they were keeping some big secret from him—before nodding. "Hospital. You, dad, Jules, Abigail, Gus. And a bunch of really hot nurses, and handsome strangers." He joked mildly, grinning and wincing at the pain it brought about.

Lassiter turned, looking at the doctor with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. The doctor smiled back, nodding.

"It's enough for treatment. If we're lucky, all Mr. Spencer is missing is some memory."

Everyone had breathed a collective sight of relief before turning to exit the room. Shawn furrowed his brow suddenly, pain gripping at his body. Next to him, the beeping of the heart monitor increased, making the doctors and nurses look back. Shawn struggled for breath, looking up sharply and staring at each and every one of his friends.

"Why can't I feel my legs?"