The explosion is deafening.
At least, that's what he assumes. He can't hear anything.
Slowly, the sound of blood in his ears fades and Shawn can hear some things. He hears the sound of Juliet's breathing. And his own breathing, too.
He's confused; he shouldn't be hearing anything. Certainly not their own breathing.
He's supposed to be dead. Exploded into bite-size chunks.
Except he's not. His body, when he manages to open his eyes, is still in one piece. From the looks of it, so is Jules.
"What the hell?" Shawn asks once he's found his voice. He leans forward, trying to see the timer.
He can't.
"It's flashing zero," Juliet tells him in an unsteady voice.
"That's..." Shawn trails off, unsure how to finish.
Luckily, he doesn't have to think because the SWAT team storms through the door, Lassiter leading in gun-blazing glory.
Juliet sees their would-be saviors before Shawn, since his back is to the door. "Yang's brother isn't here!" she shouts helpfully. "But we're wired."
"Maybe," Shawn adds as the police approach.
It doesn't take long at all for the bomb squad to figure out that they're wired, but not to anything that can kill them. Though they've both already come to that conclusion.
"Why would he not blow us up?" Juliet asks aloud as an officer cuts at her ropes. Her hand automatically shoots up to touch her ragged hair cut. A paramedic stands next to her, at the ready, but she waves him off temporarily.
"It could be a distraction," Lassiter muses, deep in thought as he turns away from them. "Maybe Plan B doesn't include you at all."
"Or maybe this is still Plan A," Shawn closes his eyes, dropping his head as his own ropes are cut.
"Sir!" an officer calls, motioning Lassiter to the table. He's there in four large strides.
Snapping on gloves, he gingerly lifts the folded piece of paper. "See you soon, Spencer," he reads. He drops the paper with an angry grunt.
"They're still playing us," Lassiter declares, running a hand through his hair. "Goddamn it! Someone get Mary on the phone!"
Though Shawn is no longer tied to the chair, he's made no move to get up. Head still down, he mumbles. "It's the ultimate mind game."
Lassiter spins. "What?"
Shawn reluctantly raises his head, but not his voice. "It's the ultimate mind game. They're not done. Blowing us up would have been too easy. No, they're going to have fun. They want us to play again. They want us afraid of the next time... if it ever even comes."
Juliet shares a look with Lassiter before turning her gaze to Shawn. He won't meet her eyes.
"We're not going to find him," Shawn announces, standing. "You might as well save the department's time and energy and money. He's too good." Shawn turns and heads towards the front door, ignoring the paramedic attempting to help him.
"Let him go," Juliet decides.
They do.
*~*~
The newspapers have already been delivered by the time Shawn arrives home. He steps over the morning edition on his doorstep and heads directly to the shower.
'Shower, bed. Shower, bed,' his mind focuses on the mantra. Though his stomach growls, Shawn adamantly refuses to edit his plans.
Shower.
Bed.
As soon as the scalding water hits his body, it clears his mind. Simple tasks. A squirt of shampoo, a lazy lather. He can see the sun brightening the bathroom. His mind wanders, picturing all the people who've had a normal night now waking up to an alarm, having breakfast, reading the paper over a cup of coffee - none of which has ever appealed to him before but all now holding a certain charm.
The image of sitting with a cup of coffee and reading the paper seems especially alluring. Probably because he's so tired. He closes his eyes as he works the lather into his scalp, inhaling the ginger blossom scent of his knock-off shampoo.
Shower.
Sleep.
Then coffee.
He can see the scene, imagine the smell and taste of the coffee, the roughness of the newspaper, the dirty feeling of ink on his fingertips.
Something pokes at the edge of his consciousness, but Shawn merely rinses off the shampoo and picks up the soap. He avoids his face, unwilling to agitate the scabbing. Instead he focuses on his arms, wincing sharply every time he touches a burgeoning bruise. He's probably broken a rib. At least fractured a few.
The shower isn't as wonderful as he'd have hoped. Still, it's better than not showering.
Shawn towels off and doesn't bother with anything more than boxers.
He stumbles into the bedroom, feeling almost drunk with exhaustion. From the doorway the bed appears in all its beauty, almost seems a mirage.
But its weight and softness is real, and Shawn drops into its comfort, still not bothering with the covers.
He doesn't fall asleep so much as become asleep, launching directly into dreams frantic, unsettling, and revealing.
When at last he awakens, he's reached three important conclusions.
First, he's starving.
Second, he really has to pee.
And third...
Barring an orange tabby on his doorstep, he doesn't have a newspaper subscription.
*~*~*
"It's a reference," Lassiter insists, pacing energetically as he thinks. He's been at the station, working all night save for a mandatory nap, and the two gallons or so of caffeine running through his body make him jittery but hyper awake.
Shawn's mini-coma has left his body rested, even if the case's latest developments are stealing the peace from his mind.
Gus, assuming everything was over and everyone was safe, had slept like a baby and is in the best condition of any of them. Even Chief Vick had tossed and turned all night after Yang's arrest, worried about making the case stick.
"Detective, don't you think you're reading too much into this?" Vick asks, glancing at the newspaper again.
"No, Chief, I don't think we're reading enough into this."
"Lassiter, we're gone through the entire thing. There's no reference to Mr. Spencer or to the SBPD."
"I still don't think this guy's done playing. Right, Mary?"
Mary's attention shifts from the table up to Lassiter. "I don't know."
"What do you mean, 'you don't know?'" Lassiter snaps. "You're supposed to be the expert!"
"I thought I was. But twins, that's just beyond my experience. I've never had twins..." he trails off, the look of longing on his face making the others uncomfortable. "I have no idea what he's up to."
"What about the sister?" Gus asks helpfully. "Has she said anything."
Lassiter's caffeinated death glare focuses on Gus.
"She's not talking," Vick answers before her head detective can.
All eyes subconsciously turn to Shawn. He's tracing nonexistent grains on the table, unsettlingly withdrawn and frustratingly uninsightful.
"Do we have any ideas?" Vick asks the question of the room, but everyone knows it's really just directed at the sullen psychic.
When she's met with uncharacteristic silence, Chief Vick launches into action, brainstorming a strategy with Lassiter.
Juliet, meanwhile, rests her head in her hand, her fingers itching to tug on the jagged ends of her hair. Maybe if she pulls it, it'll grow faster. She knows there's no logic to it, but she can't help her new tic.
She's hasn't looked in the mirror since she accidentally caught sight of herself in the ladies' room.
It's not a scar, and she's not dead, so she tells herself she should be grateful. Hair grows. Until then, though, her head is home to a constant, vivid reminder of that night. She wants to go to the hairdressers to straighten out the cut, but she doesn't know if she'll be able to stand the mirrored sight of Mario fixing it.
She hasn't even gone home yet. There have been offers, since her car is still being processed, but, although she wants nothing more than to sleep in her bed, she politely declines.
It's not that she's avoiding it. She just... there's work to be done. Statements to give, evidence to collect, time lines to reconcile. By the time she can sleep, the sun is too bright and, since she doesn't want to mess up her sleep schedule, Juliet has decided to just keep going. Luckily, too, because they got the call from Shawn about the newspaper.
She's starting to feel the exhaustion, though.
Every time she manages to get the whole Yang scenario out of her head, her mind just shifts to her "last minutes" alive. On what Shawn had said. On what she had felt, what she'd regretted.
It's much better to stay at the station.
Plus, this way she can avoid calling her family. Eventually, she'll have to tell them what happened, but she's in no rush.
The only downside to not sleeping and roaming the halls of the station is that all the events of the last forty eight hours mesh into one big nightmare.
The Chief decides to break for lunch, and Juliet's mind groggily returns to the room. Food isn't appealing, but she can use the air, and so she concludes she will take a walk. The station is busy enough that no one asks where she's going as she heads outside. Not that she can answer anyway, were they to ask, because she doesn't have a destination in mind.
At least, not consciously. Apparently, her subconscious has a plan because, after a nice walk, Juliet suddenly finds herself at the boardwalk.
Her feet take her automatically to the parking spot, still cordoned off with traffic cones and police tape though she's certain they won't get anything useful from the scene.
She stands there for some time, shifting in her heels, lost in not-particularly-coherent thought.
Eventually she turns and walks back to the station, feeling even more tired and emotionally drained than before.
The fact that their case is quickly growing cold doesn't help, either.