What's this? A wait of only two weeks between chapters? Yeah, it's only because Darkest engages in a lot of impulse posting. But that's okay, this one went exactly where I wanted it to.

He wakes up in something moving.

His new psychic brain that makes connections between memories too readily for its own good immediately reminds him of the last time this happened—or at least the last time he woke up in something moving that he didn't go to sleep in, as he has spent a lot of time on a train lately—and suddenly he's wide awake, scrambling to a sitting position, only nothing around him makes sense, and he hears exclamations of alarm and some of them are probably coming from him but among them he picks out the word "Shawn."

It's just a short string of sounds, only two consonants connected with a vowel, but it is so achingly familiar, like hearing the title of an old TV show he used to love but hasn't thought about in years. His hands slip, and he lets himself fall down again, and finds his head resting on a lap.

The face above him is one he hasn't seen even in his dreams in a matter of at least a few weeks, but considering the state of his mind recently it's probably been quite a bit longer than that.

He hasn't had to go this long without seeing so much as a photo of her since they first met years ago. But when he meets her eyes… it's like no time has passed at all. His breathing stalls and an intense pain that feels very real to him blossoms across his chest—but it's the good kind of pain. The kind that's just there to let you know you're alive.

He's never felt so inspired to write bad poetry about anything as he is about the moment he meets her eyes.

He's desperately pushing himself back to a sitting position then, only his elbows feel like jelly, and just before he slips from the soft cushion of the seat and into the crevice between it and the shotgun seat she grabs him and pulls him into her chest.

He clings to her, because he's afraid if he doesn't he's going to lift up and float away and wake up back in that tiny train apartment. She's holding him with more strength than he can muster up and his tears soak into the soft cotton of her shirt and her hair smells like her favorite shampoo and the shadows of her pain and fear and despair, already fast fading away, to be replaced by relief so intense it's almost suffocating, dance across his mind, and just for now, it's different. This isn't some random stranger he has no choice but to give control of his thoughts and emotions to. This is her.

She's here, she's okay, she's whole. And as long as she is those things, he doesn't have to be.

The latter two, at least. He will cling to the former until the last breath leaves his body.

"Shawn, are you okay?" comes a professional voice with thinly veiled genuine concern behind it from somewhere in front of him, and he is forced to orient himself. The voice is familiar, and he knows who it belongs to, even if he can't remember the name.

Though he is loathe to do it, he pulls away from her, casting his eyes about his surroundings. He's in a car. A police car, by the looks of it. Makes sense. They're in the backseat, and the owner of the voice is driving, his bright blue eyes coming back to fix on him through the rearview mirror every few seconds.

"Where are we going?" he asks, his voice a touch hoarse but totally recognizable. It floats around the interior of the vehicle, and he feels the dual surge of emotion at actually hearing him speak. A smile springs to his mouth in reaction as well as direct expression of their gladness. Not just gladness—there is something else there that can really only be called "emotion." He's not sure there's a more specific name for it, in English at least. He can't even conjure up words to describe it. All he can do is feel it. And feel them feel it.

"Hospital," the head detective manages after a second or two. "Protocol. You were unconscious when we got to you."

Images slide through his mind. The drive, the long walk, the payphone. Did they hear about the call he made with Ryan's mom's phone earlier in the day? They must have, right? He turns, and her large eyes are fixed on his face, and her hand is still on his back, holding him steady. "Just exhaustion," he says, and his voice barely wobbles. "I'll be fine after a good night's sleep."

Fine.

Sure.

She looks cautiously optimistic though. That optimism shows in her eyes right alongside continued worry and desperately maintained professionalism and efficiency. There are a million questions she has to ask and he has to answer, but that's obviously not what either of them wants out of this moment. He realizes she's staring right back into his eyes as he analyzes hers, and suddenly, due to a combination of the weariness deep within him that he still hasn't had a real chance to sleep off and the nameless emotion that's currently choking him, a wave of dizziness washes over him. The world spins around him and his head hurts like a severe migraine. Several seconds pass wherein he just squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ride it out. Finally it fades to a dull ache, and he blinks profusely, finding himself with his head back in her lap.

"Shawn," her voice floats around him, and he doesn't actually hear the unasked questions as echoes in his mind but he feels them: Are you okay? Of course not—are you hurt? No, we've covered that already—what happened to you?

The answer to that can't be given simply. It's impossible. And it's not what happened—it's what's still happening, as he struggles to hold onto his name and stay in his own head.

They don't have time for a hospital visit.

He says as much: "I don't need to go to the hospital, honest I don't. I'm okay. Just bring me to my bed and let me sleep and we can talk about stuff, in whatever order. No room on the docket to squeeze in a hospital visit really."

She lays a hand on the side of his face, looking like she's going to cry, and he knows she won't, she's too strong for that, at least before all this is over, but he wishes to God he could make her smile. Not just once, but continually. He wishes he could be his goofy, carefree, hilarious, charming self, convince them he's fine even if he isn't, and get right back to solving crimes and cracking wise and distracting everyone from the crushing weight of existence.

But as long as that lunatic is out there, none of them can afford any kind of distraction. He can't risk it. Let alone the fact that he's not sure he remembers how to be that guy anymore.

"Protocol," says the head detective again. "Sorry, Spencer, I know it's not your favorite thing in the world, but, well, it is mine. Though we can start the 'talking about stuff' portion right now. Nothing official, but this is immediately important—you called the precinct around 1:30 this afternoon. Do you remember that?"

"Of course," he replies, suddenly acutely aware of his own heartbeat. He knows what's coming—not on a strictly conscious level, but he knows there will be simple questions that he won't be able to answer, and he won't be able to explain why he can't.

"You indicated that somebody was in danger. To whom, exactly, were you referring?"

His muscles freeze up. He stares up at her face, gears spinning like mad in his head trying to pull her name from some dark corner of his mind, it must be around here somewhere—even though it isn't, he knows it isn't. He manages to push out, "Both of you," but there's more, his best friend since childhood and his partner for as long as he's known either of the people in the car with him, but that's not enough because if he calls the man by anything other than his name then they'll know, they'll know he forgot them, or at least almost did, and that there is something very, very wrong with him—

He has to try, he has to answer the question, and he manages an "and" even though he's not sure whether he's already gone that far in the sentence, but his voice breaks, it breaks like he's a pubescent teenager again, and his breathing hitches, and he stops right there, because he cannot cry now. He will not. He's got to keep on keeping on—it's the only way he can convince himself even for a moment that he's anything resembling okay.

Bless her beautiful soul, she doesn't let the pause go on for too long: "Look, Shawn, we're two minutes from the hospital," and even as she speaks, he can feel the slight turn of the vehicle, and is certain that they're getting on an exit ramp. "Gus will be there soon, and—"

"Gus," he blurts, immediately fooling himself into thinking it sounds somewhat familiar, because this is an enormous risk but it's one he feels he has to take. "Gus was in danger too. Is. Still is."

"We guessed as much," responds the head detective, sounding a little relieved. "He's got an officer with him, making sure he's safe. You don't have to worry."

Don't have to worry. Sure he doesn't have to worry. Shows his ignorance, of course they all have to worry, he has no idea what they're up against, and really neither does Ara—Shaw—whatever the hell his name is—

"Shawn," she chokes out then, proving for the umpteenth time that she really is a Godsend, and she raises up the hand that's not currently lain against the side of his face and uses it to cover her mouth for a moment. "I just—I'm sorry, I just… I just can't believe you're here."

He—Shawn reaches up to cup her cheek in his hand as she is to him, and the one on her mouth slides over to cover his. "That makes two of us, sweetheart," he whispers, lending just enough strength to his voice to make sure she can hear him, and the smile that ghosts across her face is all he needs to forget where he is and what he's saying. He just watches her, smiling stupidly right along with her.

The car is slowing, and maybe they've arrived at the hospital and maybe they're just stopping at a light, who knows. But an image pops into his head then, of himself sitting up in a hospital bed surrounded by the four people closest to him: the love of his life, his best friend for as long as he can remember, the city's head detective and one of the best men he's ever known, and… and…

The last figure is foggy for some reason—the doctor, perhaps? Or…

And the idea of sitting there answering question after question about the absolute last thing on Earth he wants to discuss, dancing around the reality that his sanity may have slipped away from him in the time he was gone… just the thought of it brings his unresolved exhaustion back to him with a single, unforgiving snap and without any further warning, everything goes black.

Everything is just blood, stinking and staining in the nothingness in which he floats in the psychic corner, the vision center—but not vision like sight, vision like any sensory input he can't explain—of his mind.

But that is as far as he can allow it to go. The dream will not manifest. He will not let it. Because he needs to rest more than anything else—except telling those around him all about the threat they are most likely facing. Once that is done, he may withdraw into the terrifying darkness of his own mind and do battle with his demons for the ultimate prize of a good night's sleep.

But for now, he has a wealth of valuable information that they very much need to know.

He finds himself pulled out of the would-be dream, by none other than himself. He senses that not too much time has passed—a good twenty minutes, maybe even thirty, so definitely longer than before, and yet he feels like he hasn't slept at all.

A man is standing over him. Bald head, graying beard, white coat, stethoscope, clipboard, the whole nine yards. His first name begins with a P, he has two kids in grad school, and he's going to have a very stressful day at work tomorrow. He leans in, mannerisms urgent but voice calm as he speaks as if addressing an old friend, "Shawn? You with me?"

He glances around the room. Looks like any hospital room. He's lying on top of the white sheets, still wearing all his clothes right down to Sebastian's jacket, except for those flimsy shoes—those are gone, and white bandages have been wrapped around half his feet just under the toes, where the pain is worst. But he's still mostly fully clothed, no hospital gowns in sight, and no tubes are stuck in him. All good things. But the two of them are alone. Pushing himself up to a sitting position, he asks, voice slightly strained, "Where are my friends?"

"Outside this room," the doctor responds. "Waiting on news. We've conducted a brief physical examination and you seem well for the most part, though I really wish you'd stayed asleep; you're exhausted. Now that you're awake, though," and he departs briefly into a door on the same side of the room as the head of the bed. Ar—Shawn quickly knows it to be a bathroom, and this is confirmed when the doctor emerges holding a small plastic cup of water. "You ought to drink some," he finishes, holding the cup out to him.

Shawn accepts it, and downs it in one go as the doctor continues, "You arrived here, at Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital, about forty minutes ago."

Damn, Shawn thinks as he wipes the last drop of water from his lip. His estimation was a bit off.

"It's nearly midnight, on May the fourteenth."

His brain freezes.

May.

He pictures the trees on the drive to the bowling alley, recalls the annual festival that had occurred the week before. It was early summer the last time he was in this city. It was very near the same time as now. For the briefest moment the notion that only a few days might have passed flickers through his scrambled mind, barreling through all the hard facts he has at his disposal that tell him this is utterly impossible.

The question rises inside him but gets caught in the back of his throat, hanging there, choking him. He almost unconsciously motions for a refill on his water, and the doctor accepts the cup and has complied before Shawn knows what's happening.

"Shawn," he finally registers, as the doctor's lips move, but somehow that movement doesn't quite match up with the words, "can you hear me?"

He nods, reaching up to touch his throat and feel the water slide down it. The cup is empty again. He's not sure he actually feels any relief.

"Listen, Shawn, I won't keep you long. I just have a couple quick questions, if you feel up to it? Very standard. After that your visitors can come and see you."

Shawn motions with one hand, giving him the go ahead, because he's itching to see the people whose names he can't remember as immediately as possible. The doctor, he suddenly realizes, probably introduced himself while he was realizing he was too terrified to ask what year it is, but it's okay that he missed that. He doesn't have enough storage space upstairs to deal with it at the moment.

"Okay, first question: what's your name?"

A mix of emotions spreads through him. This is an easy one, since the doctor himself has used it a few times just since he woke up, but he shouldn't have to rely on such things anyway… He doesn't let himself think too long, lest he allow an actual pause to assert itself, and replies, "Shawn."

By the doctor's expression it's obvious the answer he has given is in some way incorrect, but he responds patiently: "Good, but your full name?"

Oh jeez.

There it is.

For some reason, against all logic, he's been thinking in the back of his mind that if he just doesn't tell them about it, then… in this world, when he's at home and everything is warm and familiar, it doesn't have to be real. He'll struggle silently, but he'll figure it out on his own, and nobody has to be the wiser.

Stupid. So stupid. The doctor—Paul, Paul Gianni, his psychic senses suddenly tell him, almost as if to mock his plight—is right in front of him, right now, waiting for an answer. No amount of BSing is going to cover this up.

He's had to lie about one thing or another for at least a year, maybe more. Sometimes the effort was almost constant. Now he pretty much has no choice but to tell the truth. And really, why should he want to do otherwise? He is back with people who know him, who love him, and the worst they can do is think him insane. He has nothing to fear from them. Or for them.

A strange sort of peace takes hold of him, and he says, voice trembling only slightly, "I… I don't know." And immediately inhales deeply, almost like finally breathing in free air.

It's out in the open now. No taking it back.

Dr. Gianni looks at him over his thin-rimmed glasses. "You don't know your last name?" he clarifies, voice steady.

He shakes his head. "I did a matter of hours ago. I mean, I could flail around and take guesses, and maybe even get kind of close—I always used to play Clue that way, and I had a pretty good track record, believe it or not—but honestly I'm kinda bushed right now. So, dropping all pretenses. I really don't know. Could you tell me?"

He thinks he might be experiencing something very near euphoria as he spills his guts, and he's going to ride it for all it's worth.

Dr. Gianni is clearly blanking on how to respond, and eventually seems to decide to just directly grant his request: "Spencer. Your name is Shawn Spencer."

Shawn sucks in a breath, and nods. For a couple seconds he resists the urge to say it out loud himself, but bails on that as soon as it occurs to him to wonder why. "Spencer," he says. "Shawn Spencer." He grins, for a moment picturing himself as James Bond. Roped into a hospital visit after a near-death experience, kicking ass and taking names. His hands clasped around a gun

the gun pointed at Goodwin's head

his arms swinging a bookend up and down, smashing into his face till he wasn't moving anymore

and the stench of blood all around—

Shawn rubs his arms, realizing they're shaking, and screws his eyes shut, doing his damnedest to keep his muscles under control.

You were right, detectives; he was able to tell me his first name, but confessed he had no idea as to his last.

Shawn snaps his head up. Dr. Gianni is noting something down on his clipboard. For a moment Shawn tries to process what he's just felt in his mind, because it seems like an unusually detailed perception of his thoughts, but at the same time it has the feel of a future event… He realizes, as the doctor stops writing and looks up again, that he's hearing, in real time, what he plans to say to the people waiting outside the room when he comes out.

"Shawn? You all right? You're looking rather peaky."

He scratches the side of his face, trying to look natural, and nods, at the same time flicking his hand out to indicate Dr. Gianni should ask his next question.

The man clearly doesn't believe him, but he clearly knows there's not really anything to be said. Challenging his claim will get him nowhere, and Shawn respects that he is aware of that. "All right," Dr. Gianni says, "you were brought here by two detectives. Do you remember that?"

He nods, but his stomach drops in anticipation of where this is going.

"What were their names?"

This is worse. This is so much worse. Admitting to forgetting himself is one thing, but forgetting his friends? The very people he claims to care so much about?

But there's nothing for it. His insides twist around like there's a knife in them and his throat closes the first time he tries to speak, but he forces himself to croak out, "I don't know, I don't, I can't tell you that either." He did something to me floats through his mind, but no, that just sounds too insane, at least at this stage. "Just don't ask me for any names, because I've got so few left right now. I…" and he viciously rubs his fist across his dry eyes, "I don't suppose you'd… like, refrain from telling them that?"

The doctor is furiously scribbling something down, probably quoting him word for word, but he finishes fairly quickly, so maybe he knows shorthand. In fact as soon as the thought occurs to him, Shawn is sure that he does.

I'm sorry, comes an echo-y, distant version of Dr. Gianni's voice in his mind, but he said, and this is a direct quote: "Don't ask me for any names, because I've got so few left right now." It seems those few do not include yours, Detectives.

He opens his mouth to respond, but Shawn cuts him off: "Never mind, forget I asked, I know you can't promise that. But can you… can you at least tell me their names?"

Dr. Gianni places the clipboard facedown at the end of his bed and adjusts his glasses. "How about I call them in and they can—"

"No, please," and this time he can feel tears in his eyes, though they haven't fallen yet, and he wipes them roughly away. "I don't—I can't ask them that. Please, doc. Just tell me. What were their names?"

Dr. Gianni regards him silently, and eventually asks gently, "You're certain you can't tell me?"

He sighs, as silently as he can manage. The last time he had a dream that told him either name was weeks ago, at least. He might have seen one or both of them while searching for his own name, but he wouldn't know, and they're certainly not anywhere in his brain that's reachable at this point. "Yeah. A hundred percent."

Dr. Gianni watches him for a few more seconds, his aura sympathetic almost to the point of pitying, and finally picks up his clipboard once more and says, "Carlton Lassiter and Juliet O'Hara."

He knows the doctor is watching closely for his reaction, but he tries to block out that knowledge. He closes his eyes, turning the names over and over in his mind. They're familiar, they are, but they're not familiar enough. He didn't know either of them by their professional names. More often than not he referred to both of them by some sort of nickname, and he doubts this man has either one at his disposal.

He's going to have to just ask them. Or else figure it out on his own, somehow.

Screw it, screw it all to hell. He just has to see them. He just barely manages to keep the tears of desperation out of his voice when he asks, "Please, can I just see them?"

The doctor nods. "Sure," he says, voice gentler than ever. "I'll just let them know you're awake and ready to talk. Sit tight, all right?"

He nods, knowing that sit tight could be accurately translated to mean stay there and don't try anything crazy or start freaking out. Which is a bare minimum he's pretty sure he can manage.

The doctor gives him a final reassuring smile before he takes the few steps that carry him to the door, which he closes behind him.

He sits there, eyes closed, feeling the presences in the hall just outside. There are five of them. One's the doctor. Two are the ones he felt in the vehicle on the way here, he's pretty sure. The others are… possibly familiar as well, but he might just be fooling himself. He's never actually felt these people's auras before, at least not face-to-face. He didn't actually acquire these abilities until after the last time he saw them.

But still he's felt them before. In dreams.

There's something. Something he hasn't allowed himself to think about in a long time. Something he apparently managed to block so well that now it's backfiring and something is about to happen that he won't be prepared for in the slightest.

The door opens, and so do his eyes.

Four people pour into the room.

The first, striding in with a grand sense of purpose that makes it clear he planted himself closest to the door and nobody wanted to argue with him, is a man, a large man who's lost most of his hair, who's wearing a light blue button-down that is possibly the mildest item in his wardrobe, and whose eyes bear the same unnameable emotion that characterized the car ride here, but somehow so much more fierce, broadcasting loud and clear that he is ready to fight tooth and nail, to the death, for the person who has inspired this emotion in him. A sling supports his arm, and he stumbles slightly on the way to the bed, but the determined set to his jaw conveys his true inner strength, something he's held as long as Ara… as... as he's known him, and that's his entire life.

His father seizes him with his one good arm and pulls him into a desperate embrace before he's able to form an emotional reaction of his own, and with that physical touch his emotions just pour into him: crushing relief and unrelenting rage directed at whomever is responsible for all of this and gratitude to whatever heavenly powers deserve credit for his son's deliverance, after so long of being unsure whether he was dead or alive.

He sits there, leaning a bit awkwardly over the rail, arms wrapped around his father. Realizing that, apart from a slightly better idea of who's responsible, he is currently feeling the exact same things. And it's not because of the physical contact. These feelings are his own. They just happen to be pretty much the same. Everyone always told him he grew up to become far more similar to his father than he realized; he never let on to anybody how proud this made him.

Without shame, he clings to his father like his life depends on it, and at this point it feels like it does.