Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No copyright infringement of publicly recognizable characters, products or services is intended.

A/N: Episode tag for "Ghosts."

Again, I am not a doctor so here is a disclaimer for more of the medical interplay that takes place later in this chapter. Please enjoy and as always, thanks for reading.

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Chapter 3: As Loud as Silence

Karen walked from window to window, quietly drawing the blinds until the room was in near darkness. She turned to find Lassiter watching her curiously, his bloodshot eyes straining to follow her every move.

She softened. "You looked as if the light was hurting your eyes." She sat in the chair beside him. "Is that better?"

He nodded slowly, still guarded. He clearly expected some sort of reprimand.

What he could have possibly done (or thought he'd done) in the few hours that he had been off-site, she would never know. But then again, he was always good at blaming himself for any inadequacy.

Maybe it was their earlier conversation that had him on edge. She'd reasoned that he had given her words a great deal of thought. He didn't want to be associated with shoddy police work any more than he wanted to be forced into a leave of absence. It was that very truth that she had used as her justification for the well-placed phone call. She would hang her hat proudly on the fact that she was looking out for his best interest. He was going to kick and scream and fight her every inch on this but the matter had to be settled; like it or not (and he was sure to be firmly planted on the side of not).

She studied his drooping eyes. "O'Hara told me that you haven't been sleeping."

Lassiter seemed a bit put off by that statement. He drew back into his chair, breathing heavily through his nostrils.

"Ordinarily, I wouldn't pry. And just so I make myself perfectly clear, I am not prying. But I am a bit concerned." Karen watched him continue to draw into himself. It was only a matter of time before he would shut her out completely. She might have to don her Chief-hat sooner than she thought.

She eased on a layer of her authoritative self, tensing her neck and intertwining her fingers as she spoke. "I told you earlier today that you needed to get it together or I would send you home." She allowed that to sink in for a bit, letting his thoughts marinate in the power of her silence. "Well, I'm going to amend that statement slightly."

He braced himself, sitting perfectly upright and rigid as if her words had frozen him into a statue of a man.

"Madeleine Spencer has graciously consented to spending a few hours with you this week and next."

Lassiter's mouth dropped open and his eyes grew as wide as if he had been punched in the stomach. He looked as if he might say something but he only stared in silence.

"To make it worth her time, I've asked her for assessments on some of the officers as well. So there's no need for you to feel singled out."

Karen paused to allow him the opportunity to respond. For a while he said nothing; he only continued to search for words with his mouth gaping. When he finally did speak (or at least made an attempt to), he stumbled over something that sounded like "what" or "why."

Not being fully certain of which he was trying to say, Karen took a guess. "Dr. Spencer did a fine job on your last assessment and frankly, I thought you two hit it off." She paused again.

Lassiter was still aghast. After a few more moments and a few more stuttered syllables, he finally found his voice. "Chief," he shrieked.

Yes, he was definately camped on the side of not.

Karen soldiered on. "As per usual, your sessions are completely confidential and I want you to take as much time as you need."

"You can't do this," he said defiantly, a hint of ire showing in cheeks.

Karen laughed to herself, mentally turning up the dial on her internal authority-meter. "I can and you will," she said, matching his ire with some of her own. "Your options are clear, Detective. Either you work this out or you ride this out away from my station, on your own time. The choice is yours. But no matter what your decision, I will not have this continued downward spiral of poor performance from my senior detective. Is that clear?"

Lassiter pinched his eyes closed and looked as if he was fighting a grimace. His mouth formed a tight line as he no doubt reasoned which would be the lesser of two evils. "Fine," he growled, releasing a hard, slanted glare into the floor.

Karen smiled internally, skillfully masking her contentment behind an authoritative expression. "Good," she allowed. "She'll be here within the hour."

She stood and walked to her office door, opening the blinds first to dispel the collection of uniforms that always seemed congregate just outside when a good lecture was taking place. Once they scattered, she opened the door and turned back to Lassiter who was sitting sullen and rubbing his chest.

"I've secured the lounge," she said, watching him nod slowly then pick himself up from his chair and drag himself from the room; each step a dreadful thud.

He didn't look at her as he walked past. He didn't lock eyes with anyone in the bullpen. He just stared intently at the floor, never looking up. The only sound Karen heard was his loud huff as he dropped back into his desk chair.

She walked back to her own desk, balancing a sense of heaviness with a sense of relief. She was still worried about him but she knew that she had to trust the process. Just now, she'd thrown him a rope and it was up to him to pull himself back in. No matter how much she wanted to, she knew that she couldn't do that part for him.

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Madeleine Spencer sat in silence, smiling warmly from her side of the room. Ordinarily the dainty upturn of her lip might have been enough for him to lower his guard but she had been smiling like that since the moment she entered the room. It was becoming more frightening than friendly.

Lassiter squirmed under her gaze and cursed his luck. "This is such a waste of time," he thought to himself, settling into the seat cushion.

"Why do you think that?"

Madeleine's voice caught him off guard. His eyes snapped towards her.

Did he say that out loud? He could have sworn that he didn't.

Her smile grew. "You look confused."

Dodgy, old woman. What game was she trying to play?

He shifted slightly, crossed one leg over the other and let his arms fold tightly across his chest. There was no way that this woman was going to win. Not this time. Not again.

His eye narrowed. "Don't you have something else that you could be doing right now?"

"I canceled everything. Karen said this was urgent."

Lassiter sneered. "Let's cut to the chase. I'm fine." He was curt but thought nothing of it. "I had to go through this song and dance six weeks ago. I was fine then and I'm fine now."

"Six weeks ago," Madeleine seemed suspiciously unaware. "That was the incident at your apartment wasn't it?"

He shrugged. It felt a bit childish but he didn't care. If she already knew then he would have nothing to say. If she didn't know then he would say nothing. It was as simple as that.

The silence passed between them. Surely she was testing his resolve.

He checked his watch. Why was time moving at a snail's pace?

His eyes found their way back to hers. Madeleine gave him a slight nod, her gaze unwavering. He cursed under his breath. Crafty woman. She was almost as bad as his mother.

Fine, he'd answer her but only to break the tension of her eerily pleasant stare!

"Yes," he nearly shouted, feeling his shoulders tense so much that it sent a tingle down his spine. "Honestly, you're like McNabb at Christmas." He huffed a sigh. "I was exposed to amyl nitrates for an extended period about six weeks ago. I had some weird dreams and tried to kill Guster but I'm perfectly fine now."

"Except for the fact that you still aren't sleeping."

Her words gave him pause. "How did you know that I wasn't sleeping," he stuttered, half expecting to hear that Karen had briefed the female Spencer on everything that she had squeezed out of O'Hara.

Madeleine smiled warmly. "You look tired," she said softly. "You also nodded off slightly when I was telling you why Karen called me today. Which is unfortunate because you missed me saying that I accepted her offer to work here full time."

Lassiter's eyes grew wide. His hands found a steadying grip on the seat cushion.

Madeleine chuckled, a hint of amusement resting on the tops of her cheeks. "There was no such conversation, Detective. I was only joking but to prove a point."

"Dear God, what's that?" His heart was still in his throat.

Madeleine's expression sobered. "The point, Detective, is that sleep is a very valuable tool. Unlike food or even water, your body cannot function properly without sleep. Irritability, memory loss and adrenal fatigue are just some of the side effects that can be expected."

She paused as if waiting for him to loosen his death grip on the seat cushion, which he did but only begrudgingly. He had a brief thought of gripping his sidearm instead.

"I could recommend something to help you sleep. Melatonin, for example."

He grimaced at the thought.

"It's a supplement not a drug," Madeleine interjected. "The idea is that once your sleep levels are back to normal, the other side effects will go away as well."

"And the dreams," he asked, suddenly realizing that he spoke without thinking.

Madeleine's brow furrowed and her head cocked gently to one side. "What dreams, Detective?"

Yes, she had suddenly struck gold. Great job, moron.

Lassiter stared at the floor, weighing the consequences of his confession. If he told her, would she just have a good laugh then tell him to grow up and stop watching scary movies? Would she report out to Karen that Santa Barbara's Head Detective was no longer fit for duty because he was so squeamish about crime scenes that he was now having nightmares about them? Or worse yet, would she see nothing at all wrong with his dreams and tell him, in the most callus of ways, to just deal with them?

Even though they terrified him...

Why did they terrify him?

He'd seen death rear its head in a hundred different ways on thousands of cases. He'd pulled together profiles on murderers, rapists, serial killers and arsonists. All of Santa Barbara's bottom feeders were either sitting in a mound of paperwork on his desk or posted on his home most wanted wall. And if that wasn't enough, he could add his own experiences to the list. In his tenure as a cop he had been held hostage, drugged, framed, stalked and concussed. He'd even been divorced for crap's sake. Real life was like a swift kick to the groin. How could a silly little dream bring him to his knees?

The more he thought about it, the less he felt like saying anything at all.

"Forget it. They're just dreams," he muttered, feeling the weight of his non-confession press upon him.

"Like the one with you hiding under the towel at the pool?"

He hated that she remembered that story and didn't bother trying to hide his disdain.

"Or perhaps it's something worse than that," Madeleine continued, seemingly immune to his glare.

A small laugh escaped. "Yeah, much worse."

Madeleine seemed to light up.

He shifted in his chair, realizing his mistake. "I mean." He searched desperately for a way to unsay what he just said, which was: Thanks for all of your work three years ago when Karen thought that I was in bad shape. You'll be pleased to know that I am now certifiably insane…and possibly a murderer…And maybe not in that order.

With that brilliant insight, there were sure to be more counseling sessions. Madeleine would report to Vick who would promptly make him seek official psychiatric treatment. After that, he would be considered unfit for duty, relieved of his badge, watch his partner get reassigned and witness the entirety of Santa Barbara get overrun by that slushy-sipping psychic and his supremely-cowardly sidekick.

He blindly massaged away the ghost of a pain in his chest.

"Detective?" Madeleine's eyes drifted deliberately to his hand. "Are you in any pain?"

Lassiter paused and followed her gaze to his own hand, resting awkwardly on his chest. He let it drop back to his crossed arm and tapped a nervous finger on his bicep. "No. I just..." Sound like a moron and look like an idiot. "I..."

The truth was perched on his lips waiting to leap into the air but he was both too ashamed and too afraid to speak. He drew back into the couch once more, checking his watch. A moment of time with this woman was like being trapped in a vortex.

"It's alright, Detective. I'm here to help you relieve stress not add to it." Madeleine reached into the bag at her feet, pulled out a small piece of paper and began scribbling on it. "Recalling these dreams seems to produce a noticeable level of anxiety for you," she said under the rhythmic scratches of her pen. "If or when you feel comfortable enough to talk about it, I will be more than happy to listen." She folded the paper over once and handed it to him.

Lassiter looked the paper over, noting her fine penmanship. Each deliberate pen stroke conveyed a level of calm and control. It reminded him of how deeply they had connected during their last session together. He might have opened up even more to her back then if it had not been for the unfortunate reality that she was Shawn Spencer's mother.

"With that said," Madeleine continued.

He returned his attention to her.

"I still highly recommend you getting some sleep. I've written down some tips for that as well." She pointed a finger at the note before letting her hand rest in her lap, poised daintily over the other; then she straightened her back, tilted her head and smiled.

Lassiter's eyes danced around the room. It was quiet again; the uncomfortable quiet that was sure to lead to more awkward confessions. Time to end this.

"Is that it," he asked gruffly.

Madeleine nodded. "If you have more to say, I am certainly here to listen."

Rays of hope began to shine and an angelic host began to sing. Lassiter slapped his hands on his knees and stood quickly. "Nope. I'm good." He dashed from the room before Madeleine had a chance to stop him.

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The air was crisp, the streets were quiet. Somewhere in the distance, there was a continuous whoosh that crescendoed in uncertain intervals. Light pooled in silver blots on the glistening pavement of the almost forgotten parking lot. An old brick wall, adorned with indiscernible symbols from a local street gang, enclosed the square space whose only visitor was a rusting brown car waiting to be brought to life.

From behind him, the dainty footfalls of dress shoes met his ears and soon after, appeared the shadow of their unsuspecting owner.

Tall and slender, the woman stepped into view. She was seemingly unaware of his presence, tragically unaware of his intentions and distracted by an unknown article buried deep inside of her handbag. Head down, arms tangled, she fretted unaware; walking blindly and slowly towards the awaiting brown car.

An immense sense of mortality encompassed him. He didn't reason why, he just followed an overwhelming impulse.

Kill her.

In one fluid motion, he rushed towards the woman, overtaking her in an effortless clasp. Her terrified scream was muffled almost instantly as she collapsed backwards onto the ground, her once distracted limbs rising to grab the wrists of his aggressive hands. He counted slowly, pushing and squeezing until her body went limp beneath his grasp.

She released one single word with her final breath; a whispered and haunted "Hudson" that seemed to hang in the air unwanted and forgotten like a light fog set on by a cool autumn night.

He watched life transform into stillness as her body, just like the world about him, grew cold and dark. Loosening his grip on her bruised neck, he slid his hand to the locket resting loosely on her chest. It was a small, golden emblem with the initials S.K. He ran a hand over the trinket as if it was his own lost treasure now found.

As he let it settle between his fingers, both it and the woman disappeared and he found himself standing at a dimly lit table. A single, naked lightbulb shone from a fixture overhead and cast a yellow beam on several small lockets gathered in a pile, on the table below. He leaned in closely, noting six golden charms marked S.K. Beside them was a metallic S.B.P.D shield encased in leather.

The shield shone with a golden brilliance, its badge numbers too small to discern. It made the necklaces pale in comparison with their blemishes of hair, dirt and blood. He ran a hand over each of the lockets wondering which belonged to whom. As he held each of them, he could see the faces of women in his mind's eye; some familiar, others new. Each of them danced about his head chanting their unforgivable words in haunted whispers: "Hudson. Hudson. Hudson."

"Not again," he moaned. The word alone turned his stomach, an entire chorus was maddening. He clapped his hands over his ears and implored for relief.

A sharp bang from the door behind him silenced the sounds in his head. He turned to see hot, white light pouring into the room; its luminance obstructed by a bodily form standing inside the threshold. The figure loomed before him, tall and dark, saying nothing but observing everything with eyes that seemed to glow.

Lassiter willed himself to react. He tried reaching for his weapon or even running from the room but his limbs seemed numb and cold, paralyzed with fear. Against all instincts he stood waiting. Wondering. Curious.

"Who are you," he stammered, his tongue feeling as heavy as his legs.

The figure approached slowly, faceless and intimidating.

He tried again, his confidence slipping with each increasing beat of his heart. "What do you want?"

The figure's only reply was in an advance.

One step.

Another.

Then another.

Lassiter was bound to the floor. Curiosity was replaced by terror and he wanted nothing more than to run. He closed his eyes to plead with himself, "Now. Now. Now!"

In an imperceptible move, the dark figure collapsed upon him and pressed him tightly against the wall.

His breath trapped in his chest. His heart climbed into his throat.

"No," he choked as he tried to move a pinned arm to help free himself.

The figure pressed against him more, leaning into him with heaviness and purpose. "You're already too late," it said in a venomous rasp.

The phrase pained him more than the dreaded chant. Lassiter craned his neck to glare into the glowing eyes of the shadowy figure.

It pressed on him mercilessly and relentlessly, leaning closer to repeat its doomed phrase. "Already too late..."

Lassiter squelched defiantly, kipping himself off of the wall and pushing the figure from him.

His hand found its place around his Glock and leveled it obediently in front of him. The cold steel was familiar, its touch so real that it gave him pause. He glanced at his hand, sensing the weight of the steel and the feel of the handle as it rubbed against his palm. Something was off.

He looked again at the room. The figure, the table and the light were gone. He was alone but not alone in a place that seemed vaguely familiar. A slight movement beside him caught his attention and he turned towards it, gun drawn.

"Carlton," Juliet shouted, pushing two palms in his direction.

Lassiter watched her curiously and felt reality slowly dawning. In a moment's time, sleep relinquished control and full awareness returned. Everything made sense again; the ceiling, the walls, the faint aroma of coffee brewing somewhere in the world where smell was no longer a forgotten sense.

O'Hara took a small step towards him, her palms still outstretched. "Carlton," she led, looking from him to his gun and back.

He followed her gaze. Having completely forgotten that he had been pointing his weapon at her, he instantly returned it to its holster. "Sorry," he muttered.

Juliet dropped her hands and continued her slow pace towards his side of the room. "Were you sleeping?"

He couldn't answer her. The images in his mind were still too real. He closed his eyes, as if conjuring new images would help erase the old ones. He felt some give in the mattress and turned to see Juliet sitting next to him, looking at him with knowing eyes.

"I told you I could handle the paperwork from today. You could've gone home. You didn't have to sleep here."

He managed a grunt before realizing that he didn't know where "here" was. His eyes scanned the room once more, noting the cell bars, the small rusting cot, the cement floor...

"Why am I in a holding cell," he asked aloud, though the question was mostly directed towards himself.

"That's what I'd like to know." Her brow furrowed. "You're soaking wet," she said, pulling at the front of his dress shirt until it was no longer adhered to his chest. "Did you have that dream again?"

His heart fluttered at the thought and he fought the urge to close his eyes or rub his chest. "A bit different," he managed, choosing to distract himself by rubbing a sweaty palm across a sweaty forehead.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"No." He nearly cut her off and felt like a jerk but there was nothing enticing about reliving his night terrors. Experiencing them once was more than enough.

O'Hara pursed her lips. Her eyes moved away from him and about the room as if she wanted to tell him something. He watched her worried face grow more and more perplexed and hated himself for every wrinkle in her brow. It was troubling to see her so troubled.

"I told Vick," she said suddenly and quickly, almost forcing the phrase into one single word. "She asked how things went and then how you were doing. I didn't tell her everything. Just that you weren't sleeping and-"

"I know," he interrupted. "It's okay. She set me up with Madeleine Spencer. We spoke already."

Juliet heaved a sigh. "That's such a relief. How'd it go?"

He shrugged. "It could've gone worse."

"What did she say about your dreams?"

He hated that all roads led back to that subject. Naturally, O'Hara was concerned but he wanted to avoid that conversation at any cost. Especially now, when it was all so fresh.

He parried. "We mostly discussed the not-sleeping thing."

Juliet offered a soothing smile. "Well, then I'm glad that you took her advice and got some rest."

He grunted, standing to stretch a tense neck and back. "I wouldn't call it that," he said mid stretch. "She suggested some sort of over the counter, voodoo crap which is probably nothing more than old-school, hippie magic. But I guess it worked. It's been a couple of weeks since I actually slept through the night so..."

Juliet snickered. "Through the night? Carlton, it's barely ten."

He swallowed a bitter wave of discomfort. "In the morning?"

Juliet laughed again. "P.M., Partner. You could sleep another eight hours if you wanted and you still wouldn't be late tomorrow morning."

Her words triggered an emotional response.

Late?

His heart started to beat its now familiar rhythm. His eyes locked on a spot in front of him as the images of his mind projected their vivid portrayal of his dreams. He could sense the figure's presence and could hear those taunting words.

"Too late. Too late."

The pain grew in his chest, his lungs screamed for air.

"We're running out of time," he heard himself say.

"You're already too late," mocked his heart, in reply.

"No," he cried, feeling himself pinned to the wall, feeling the figure pressing upon him.

An undefinable black grew from the corners of his vision and threatened to overtake him. He closed his eyes to hide from it, ignoring the pain in his chest, ignoring the rhythm in his head.

Breathe. Breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe.

On his arm, he felt O'Hara's gentle touch and heard her voice in his ear. He strained to focus on it, to focus on her. He needed to hear her, to feel her, to know that he wasn't losing control. Not again.

"Breathe, Carlton. Breathe," he heard O'Hara say. Her voice was muffled and distant, as if she was speaking to him from the deep end of a pool. She said the phrase over and over, clenching and shaking his arm until his lungs obeyed.

In. Out. Steady. Slow.

His ears searched for the sounds of each continuing breath.

Steady. Slow.

Steady. Slow.

Breathe. Breathe.

Just breathe. Just breathe.

Stillness followed; a strange, quiet stillness accompanied by an equally strange sense of relaxation.

Did it work?

He opened his eyes slowly, taking a cautious glance around the room. Everything was in its place; everything except for the concern on O'Hara's brow that is. That wasn't supposed to be there.

His heart jumped in earnest to comfort her. "I'm fine," he said quickly, though more to her brow than to her.

Juliet shook her head, never letting her eyes drop from his. "No, you're not," she said, her voice a delicate quiver. "Something is definitely the matter with you."

He slid his arm from her grasp and took a step back, a gesture that he hoped would convince her that he was in full control of the situation. "I'm fine," he said again, nodding his head reassuringly. "I just," he stopped to think once more about the images in his head. There was no mistaking the feeling that was coming over him. "I just need to stop this from happening."

Juliet took a step closer to him and returned her hand to his arm, her own limbs beginning to shake with unexpressed emotions. "Stop what from happening," she pleaded.

Carlton let out a deep sigh and grimaced. "There's going to be another body tonight."

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