This thing is not dead. I will not let it happen.

Took a very, very long time to get the ball rolling on this one, needless to say. Inspiration did not come easily. And believe me when I say this has been a constant thing hovering in the back of my mind. Eventually I just had to sit down, buckle down, and write sans inspiration. Which took weeks. But hey, that considered, I'm pleased with how this turned out. The events of this chapter have undergone a lot of revision and it has been a struggle, but I am happy with the amount of sense the final product makes.

A lot of you have probably forgotten what's going on. Here's the run-down if you need it and don't feel like doing any re-reading. Shawn escaped a few chapters back, directly after finding out that Sebastian is actually named James and his entire family is dead because of the actions of the Master and Arthur Loriss/Benedict Goodwin. After a bus ride, some hitchhiking, too much walking, and very little sleep (Shawn has been having recurring nightmares revolving primarily around blood and he is beyond sick of it), Shawn arrived in Santa Barbara and was taken to the hospital, where he told Henry, Gus, Lassie, and Jules (none of whose names he can actually remember) that he was kept at a carnival by somebody calling himself the Master, that he killed the man who shot Henry, and that they need to get working on finding somebody named Barnabas Thornton, a name given to him by the ghosts of James's family. He is spending the night at Henry's, in his old room, and there are some officers posted outside the house. In the middle of the night he woke Henry up with his screaming and then insisted on getting his wild hair cut. They had a talk wherein not much was revealed but many emotions were thrown around, and Shawn returned to bed.

There are a lot of other important details but that's the gist. Hopefully it helps.

ALSO: funnily enough, during this hiatus I myself was put into a situation wherein I had to walk seven miles with totally inadequate footwear, as Shawn did in Chapter 23. I came out of it with some really gnarly blisters—to the point where I couldn't walk without extreme pain for some time afterwards. For the sake of realism, I am going to put Shawn in more physical pain (because who doesn't love that?). I will be slightly altering the last couple chapters to worsen the state of his feet, but it won't have a huge impact on the story. Just don't be alarmed when he suddenly has horrible blisters that you don't remember being mentioned before.

Okay, that's enough. On with the chapter. I know I don't deserve it, but maybe drop a review so I know I still have readers?


When Shawn was a kid, he never suffered from insomnia. Sleep was easy, when he actually wanted it. But his best friend did have problems getting shuteye, problems which cropped up periodically and always majorly inconvenienced him (and Shawn, seeing as his friend was the source of a lot of his best grades). He started taking pills for it at a pretty young age, and Shawn was always very curious as to how they worked and what it felt like to take one. He often thought about sneaking one, just for the experience.

He wasn't stopped by ethics, or fear of getting caught. No, it wasn't that at all. What stopped him was the terror that ran through him of the idea of losing control. Of consciousness slipping away from him outside of his ability to fight it. Of his dreams possibly being altered. Of… of being affected.

Right here and now, when control of his mind has already been violently seized from him anyway, he no longer gives a damn.

Lying awake waiting for the pill to take effect is agony. He would describe himself as too tired to sleep, and even he can't make sense of that, but all of a sudden he feels like giving his best friend a hug as a bit of recompense for having to go through anything remotely similar to this so often in his youth.

Also for forgetting his name. Again.

Really he only knows his own right now because his dad has used it plenty of times in the last hour. He is absolutely certain that it'll be gone by the time he wakes up, though.

Straining his tired brain for one last job today, he starts putting together a list of things he has to be happy about.

He's still alive.

So are all the people he cares about.

He's back home.

He will be protected.

He at least still has access to all the names he can't seem to hold onto.

He's wearing a clean change of clothes.

His hair's been cut.

His hair, therefore, no longer looks the way it did in his dream of himself hovering on the brink of death.

He breathes out slowly. He knows there's every possibility that changing this detail won't have any bearing on what comes to pass. He's never tried to change an outcome he's foreseen, and he doesn't even know if he can. But there's no reason to think about that, to dwell on the possibility of futility. He just has to try to avoid that future. Whatever it takes.

His dad could see the fear in his eyes. He knows he could.

Shawn can't tell him.

And that's not to say he doesn't want to or feels some obligation not to; he can't. Can't find the words, can't force them through his lips, can't bring himself even to imagine what they'll think of him if he actually gets a pseudo-explanation out.

He still has no idea how this happened to him.

Something nags at the back of his mind, something telling him yes you do, and it feels like the old Shawn, the normal-but-just-really-smart Shawn, and the new actually-psychic Shawn almost pays him mind, but he stops himself when he glances to the side and reads 3:31 on his digital clock.

This is likely a can of worms, best left unopened till he can actually think straight.

But if he wants to be able to think straight again, he needs to sleep.

He could take a few guesses at what's keeping him conscious despite his being completely dead-ass tired, but it really doesn't matter. Because it's just a matter of time before he finally slips away, and time, as of relatively recently, is something that can be neutralized.

He pushes away the ticking of the metaphorical clock, taking deep breaths and sinking into himself until he forgets everything. Awareness is quick to flee from him, and consciousness must follow soon after.


When he wakes up, sunlight slanted through the blinds tickles his fingertips and blurred dreams tickle the back of his mind, swirling underneath the shadows of writhing black clouds such that he cannot get through to uncover any details. And in fact, forget details; for the first time in he can't remember how long, he has no idea what he dreamed about at all.

Well, he has an educated guess, but it really is just that: a guess.

Truly there is nothing in this world quite like drugs.

He doesn't quite want to be awake yet, he wants to lie in bed with his eyes closed and go over everything he remembers from what must have been last night but feels like last week given how completely amazing he feels after that night of sleep, but the voice that suddenly fades into his realm of comprehension and alerts him that he is not alone throws that possibility out the window. His eyes snap open and he quickly brings himself to a sitting position, pushing himself slightly back on the bed, but all at once his eyes land on the owner of the voice and his brain processes what it sounded like and what it said and in that instant he knows two things: that at least for now, he is safe, and his name is

"Shawn?" she says again, taking a seat carefully at the foot of his bed. She's wearing that shirt that's almost the exact color of her eyes—it was always his favorite of hers, and he's pretty sure she chose it today with that in mind. Based on what he can see now, it's hard to tell whether she's dressed for work, but she left her gray suit jacket downstairs, so that answers that question.

"Shawn," she says again, a knot formed between her graceful brows, and all at once he feels like weeping because damn it all, to just remember her name would be the basest level of human respect he could possibly show her and far, far below what she deserves from him, but he can't even do that and he doesn't freaking know why. All he can do is hold on to the information she's just given him with all the strength he has.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says, and his voice comes out just a touch hoarse, so he immediately clears his throat. Glancing to his side, he asks in a normalized tone, "What time is it?"

"Almost noon," she answers, inching closer to him. There's something behind her voice, some hesitant confusion he can't explain. "I hope I didn't wake you. Your dad told me about what happened last night. Did you sleep okay?"

"Oh man. Honey, I haven't slept that okay in a long, long time." He smiles, and it's a smile he actually feels, and she smiles back and she's so beautiful, and in that quiet moment he hears the brief clash of pots clanging together as they are removed from a cabinet downstairs. In his mind's eye he can see his father preparing brunch—clearly it is too late for breakfast, and if it's not noon yet it is too early for lunch, so of course brunch is the only logical possibility—and he feels warm and safe and comfortable, and it is very near a perfect moment.

Then her smile fades, to be replaced by that same puzzled look, and she starts, "Shawn, you were—" and panic seizes him. Utter, unadulterated panic, and he can't explain it, but lately he's come to specialize in feelings he can't explain, and he'd be a fool to ignore this.

He doesn't know if she kept talking but he blurts, "Wait" and then she's not anymore, just staring at him, looking slightly alarmed by his tone, waiting for him to go on, to explain himself. And he stares at her with his mouth open like a complete idiot, because he can't. Not that he'd have expected to be able to.

He misses the days when it wasn't a potentially dangerous choice to refrain from looking like a psycho.

Actually, he's not sure he even remembers days like that with any clarity. But before, it was fun.

A heavy silence has fallen between them, as she looks at a loss for what to say, and his heart is still pounding like a jackhammer in terror at her speaking, and he knows he has to say something to ensure she doesn't continue, but he's blanking as to what. After several seconds have passed, she opens her mouth again, and that terror completely overtakes his brain, filling all the empty spaces with white noise and crowding together all his thoughts till it's just scrambled static up there that's so loud his ears are ready to bleed, and before she can say a word he cries, "Stop. Whatever you are about to say, don't. Please. You gotta trust me, it's important."

"Shawn—" she starts again, her alarm climbing into sharper focus.

"Please," he says again, and his voice cracks and damn it all, a tear leaks out of the corner of his eye. He's not crying, or at least that's what he tells himself—it's just that snowstorm in his head that's pushing out bodily fluids. Obviously. "I'm sorry, I know it's not fair," he goes on, trying to calm himself down, but knowing there's no time for deep breaths. "And I hope to God one day I can explain it to you, but I am telling you now that it would be disastrous if you go on to say what you wanted to say. Okay?" Disastrous. He didn't consciously choose that word before saying it out loud, but now that he has, he is certain it's the right one to have used.

Whatever she wanted to ask him or tell him, if she actually succeeds, everything falls apart.

"Shawn," she tries one last time, eyes wide as saucers but tone still even, "you're scaring me—"

"Please promise me," and he can't claim the same vocal steadiness she can, but he locks his eyes with hers with all the intensity he can muster.

She looks at him, lips pursed, not breaking eye contact, and he can feel the flow of questions in her mind. How much she wants to ask them, and how much she feels it is her right to have them answered before agreeing to anything, until she hits the wall he has presented by pretty much telling her she's simply not going to get those answers right now.

And the worry, the uncertainty, uncertainty in him, that lies underneath it all.

"Only if you promise me," she finally says, tone uncompromising, "that you will explain to me as much as you can, as soon as you can."

"Deal," he chokes out the moment the last word has left her mouth, and moves on quickly to a deep inhale through lips formed in an o, trying to phase out all that sudden and totally inexplicable but absolutely real stress that clogged every part of his brain. His heartbeat immediately begins to normalize, and he can breathe again.

But she's still watching him, and he doesn't want to look long enough to see how much of that in her eyes is concern and how much is fear. So, taking it upon himself to change the subject, he claps his hands together, and says brightly, "So, brunch time?"

He swings his feet over the edge of the bed, but quickly remembers how difficult it was to walk last night. As he pulls his left foot towards his chest to check the state of it, she stands up and asks cautiously, "Do you need my help walking?"

As she speaks he sees—and he's not sure whether it's through his mind's eye or just good old-fashioned peripherals—her hand reach towards his shoulder and hesitate inches from it. And it's so heartbreaking that he immediately forgets about his feet, and he looks over at her and says, making sure his voice broadcasts gratitude loud and clear, "Yes, please."

Truth be told, he wouldn't have minded waking up to an empty room and having to struggle downstairs on his own. He has trained himself, with very good reason, to flinch away from touch. Oh sure, the touch on its own would be wonderful, just what the doctor ordered really, but it doesn't come on its own. And he doesn't particularly want to experience firsthand what she's feeling right now. But the guilt over what he's putting her through, with the added bonus of, again, forgetting her name, is big and ugly and in his face, and if he refuses her help that will just add fuel to the fire. Not to mention he actually could probably use it.

He takes her outstretched hand, and is instantly overwhelmed by confusion, with serious undertones of betrayal, albeit ones she's trying to quash. It's such a mangled torrent that when he puts pressure on his feet and starts walking the pain only reaches him on a very distant, dulled level. He's put people through hell in the past—his family, his friends, his teachers, his clients, plenty of criminals, really everyone he interacts with—but he never had to deal with their disappointment or their pain firsthand. And… and he is a real piece of work for needing to do so before he finally feels any substantial regret for it. But in this case, it's at least in large part out of his control.

By the time they reach the top of the stairs he's considering accidentally-on-purpose falling down them just to escape from it.

Instead, he searches his mind for something to say, and rather quickly comes upon a truly pertinent question. So he asks, voice strained with both physical and mental effort, "Did you find anything on…" And trails off.

Damn. It. To. Hell.

The name has left him completely.

Her expectation permeates the air, and he is forced to finish lamely, "…the guy? On… you know, the guy I told you about?"

"Barnabas Thornton?" she supplies readily.

"Yes!" he cries, relief and shame filling him in equal parts.

"We found a librarian in South Dakota named Barnabas Thornton who matches the drawing you gave us," she answers in a too-modulated tone. "We were going to ask you about that later today. Really, there's a lot we need to ask."

Suddenly he feels weak at the knees. The Randolfs did not steer him wrong. And he shouldn't be surprised, but the affirmation that this Barnabas Thornton is a real person is… a little overwhelming. And suddenly faced with this reality, he is forced to consider what should actually be expected from the man. He is obviously related to the Master, but whether he's involved in the man's schemes is another matter entirely.

He's spared from having to respond to this talk of questions by their arrival downstairs, and seconds later, he hears his dad's voice from the kitchen: "Shawn? Juliet?"

He does his best not to physically react to this information, but just like last night in the parking lot, he feels his expression change like the sun coming out again after a storm. Juliet. The most beautiful name in the world, belonging to the most beautiful person in the world.

Suddenly, with the clarity brought by morning, the thought enters his mind of writing down all these names he needs to remember, now that he can. Preferably on his person. Or maybe not—he doesn't want them to be able to see it.

He can take care of that right after he eats.

They come into the kitchen, and his dad is standing across the island counter from them, wearing his apron and an oven mitt and just putting a pan full of sizzling bacon down on the stovetop. He turns to them, pulling the mitt off, and his eyes immediately land on Shawn. He can feel him trying not to let his gaze linger on his inked-up forehead, and he's pretty successful. "Ya look a lot better, kid," he comments, a genuine smile overtaking his expression. "How'd you sleep?"

"Like a chloroformed baby," he answers, pulling gently away from Juliet and lowering himself into the nearest chair at the table.

"Almost exactly, just the wrong kind of drug," he hears his father say in a tone not necessarily meant to be heard.

"What was that?" he inquires, head jerking upward and grin curving his mouth as Juliet takes a seat adjacent to him.

"I was insinuating that you're a man-child," his dad responds promptly at a normal volume.

They're all smiling now, and it's really a perfectly idyllic picture, with the sun shining and the bacon sizzling and the banter starting up again. His dad crosses the kitchen, moving only a little haltingly, and picks up a plate with four slices of toast stacked on top of it from next to the fridge. Shawn hadn't noticed it before. He deposits it in front of Shawn and says, "I just made this and you can see I'm making bacon now, but I wasn't sure what you'd want beyond that. So—"

"I'm glad you banked on the bacon, though," Shawn asserts. "Shows you're somewhat sane."

"Not even gonna contest that one. So any specific requests? Or do you wanna just rifle through the fridge, as you tend to do?"

"Shawn," says Juliet before he can answer, and he looks back to her, "I'm going to text Gus and Lassiter to let them know you're awake. Can I tell them they're free to come over?"

More names. Now he's starting to get nervous that he'll forget them just from the sheer number—until he reminds himself that even without this psychic shtick, he's still got an eidetic memory. He'll be fine. "Yeah," he says, and she pulls out her phone.

He gets up cautiously, and he feels two pairs of eyes on him as he takes the few steps to bring him to the refrigerator. It hurts to walk, he won't deny that or try to hide it, but if he puts the weight on the sides of his feet it definitely helps. He can make it around on his own for brief stretches, and in a couple of days he ought to be right as rain again.

He scours the fridge and finds jam, some lunch meat that he's willing to eat straight out of the bag, and a dozen eggs. He stares into the fridge at the carton and finally says, "Dad, I'm feeling scrambled eggs."

Immediately his father is at his side, pushing a butter knife into his hands and pulling the eggs out of the refrigerator. "Coming right up," he says promptly, shutting the door and quickly making his way back to the stove. Shawn feels a smile rising inside him as he returns to the table.

"So, on the docket today," his dad says as Shawn begins spreading the jam over the first slice of toast. "A follow-up at the hospital, a thorough debriefing at the precinct, and a visit from your mom."

Shawn looks up quickly, a barrage of emotions hitting him in the face.

Mom.

He doesn't remember her name either.

His dad looks at Juliet, who's just put her phone away, and says, "Yep, Madeleine booked the first flight she could to Santa Barbara as soon as she heard the news. She's scheduled to arrive this afternoon." And even as Shawn slightly deflates in relief to have this information again, he knows that the name drop was very intentional, and that it was strategy that led his dad to address Juliet when saying this, because if he was talking directly to Shawn then calling her anything other than "your mom" would have just been weird. It is painfully clear by this point that they have not only at least guessed at the scope of his name problem, but have made it their mission to help him with it without directly mentioning it. Which he appreciates so, so much, but… it hurts to need it, and he burns up with shame just thinking about it.

"How's she doing?" he asks, and manages to keep his voice steady.

"Much better now that she knows you're safe," his dad answers cryptically after a short pause, turning back to the counter and picking up the first egg to crack.

He stares down at his toast. He shouldn't feel guilty about this. It makes no sense. But all the same, he does. "And… how have you two been doing?" he asks quietly, looking up. He knows the answer, of course. All too well. But he wants to hear what they'll say. And he wants them to know that despite everything, he's been thinking of them.

Well, with the exception of that long, undefined period of time when he was thinking of nothing.

They glance at each other, and then look back to him, and she says, "We never gave up on you, Shawn."

His shoulders sag, just in awe at the grace involved in that reply, and he asks, "Juliet, have I ever told you that you are a perfect human being?"

His dad turns away, but Shawn knows he's smiling. And so is she—obviously relieved to hear him address her by name. As much as it would suck ass to go the rest of his life having to be reminded of the names of the people he cares about, in this moment, it actually feels like a manageable thing. And he will take what he can get.

They descend into comfortable silence, with only the sound of food cooking on the stove floating around the air. After a few minutes Juliet tries offering to help, but of course his dad will have none of it. Shortly after that her phone buzzes, and she announces, "Gus says he'll be over soon as he can." Shawn nods, munching contentedly on his toast. His best friend—Gus—is one of the last pieces missing from this perfect picture.

His head jerks up suddenly, eyes dragged towards the front door by an unknown force, and he can sense the mild, fuzzy alarm, or maybe just surprise, from the other two people in the room. He immediately winces from the obviousness of the motion, and as he does, the ring of the doorbell echoes through the house.

If it were somebody he knew, he'd be able to identify them just by their aura. But… strangely enough, the aura does feel familiar, just not sufficiently so. He can't quite place it, and he doesn't feel anywhere close to knowing who it is. He forces himself to his feet as Juliet rises, and she says, voice betraying a hint of concern, "It's okay, Shawn, I'll get it."

"I'll come with you," he insists. "It's probably Gus, right?" He doesn't think it's Gus. It doesn't feel at all like Gus. But then, he doesn't have much of a handle on what Gus feels like. He's been exposed to his aura only very briefly, last night. But to be safe… he wants to be there with her when she answers the door. If nothing else, it'll lift a little bit of weight from his mind.

"I don't see how he could have gotten here so fast," Juliet murmurs, but she offers him her shoulder to lean on as they walk to the door. Touching her is much less unpleasant this time around, as all she's really feeling is mild curiosity, and traveling over level ground means that with her assistance he can walk pretty much normally. When they reach the door she peeks through the spyhole, says only, "Oh," and pulls it open.

In front of them stands the man he has just been reminded is called Lassiter. He's got on a new suit and blue tie—or at least it's new to Shawn, he could have gotten these clothes at any time in the last year—and his left fist is shoved into his pocket. His eyes immediately flicker back and forth between the two people in front of him.

"Hey," Juliet says without pausing to let him speak first. "I just texted you."

Shawn is quickly finding himself immensely distracted by multiple things, his brain tugged in too many directions at once to keep track of them all. Firstly, he knows this man's name is Lassiter—surname, anyway—and that that's not what Shawn usually calls him. It's some… play on that. Didn't he hear it last night? He thinks he might even be able to reconstruct it, but that's not all—there's something about the way he's holding himself that seems… off. He just can't put his finger on it…

"I didn't get it," Lassiter says, tone almost strangely neutral.

"Well that's weird," Juliet muses, pulling her phone from her pocket and entering her passcode. All the while Shawn is staring at Lassiter, whose familiar-but-not-familiar aura is bugging him more than it should be and who seems to be avoiding eye contact with him.

"It says it sent," Juliet affirms after a moment.

He figures out then what's off about his posture. His left hand is in his pocket. Lassiter is right-handed. Maybe it's nothing. Just a meaningless detail.

Yeah… He's never been able to ignore potentially meaningless details.

Lassiter says, voice somewhat strained, "O'Hara, I was hoping I could talk to Spencer alone." And Shawn looks at him in alarm, possibilities firing in his head of what he could have to tell Shawn that his partner can't hear.

Juliet glances up at him, looking puzzled, and moves to stow her phone back in her pocket, but just before she does it vibrates. She checks it again, and says immediately upon seeing it, "Oh, it's from…" She pauses, and holds up the phone slightly higher, in a gesture of indication towards Lassiter. "It's from you…" She stares at the phone, and her brow furrows in mild confusion.

The text on her screen, which Shawn thinks he partly sees with her eyes and partly with his own, reads, "Great. I'm at the precinct right now; bring him around after his hospital check and we'll talk."

Shawn doesn't have any time to waste telling himself there is no disparity here. Something is deeply wrong, and Lassiter's gaze finally locks with Shawn's—but he's not looking at Shawn, he's looking away from Juliet, as if in nervousness.

And there is something in the blue of his eyes that should not be there.

Lassie. That's what he used to call him.

Lassie.

"He says you need to come now or this happens to everyone," the man who currently doesn't look too much like Lassie says lowly, face wrought with pain, gaze fixed with Shawn's, and in a fluid motion, he pulls a long knife from his pocket and slides it into Juliet's stomach.

Her phone clatters to the porch. Red blossoms across the shirt that perfectly matched her eyes up until now. The thud of a body against wood reaches Shawn. A scream rips from his throat, ragged and primal.

He is being dragged across the grass then and he sees her lying still at the threshold of his childhood home, growing further and further away. He thrashes, he waves his fists around, until the word "Everyone" hissed into his ear turns his limbs to lead.

They pass the two police cars sitting outside and Shawn feels the nothingness in them very heavily just before he can see with clarity the men sitting dead in the front seats. He throws his eyes back to the front door of the house, which is just now being flung open by his father, as he is thrown into the back of a car that wasn't there last night.

He feels those blue eyes on him, full of tears, and he barely registers the words "I'm sorry."

Ducking his head into the cushioning of the car's backseat, seeing nothing but her chest heave with rapidly diminishing vigor and her eyes go glassy, and without shame or thought but with all the strength left in his heart, he sobs.