His mind fled.

Once more, he was back in that Laundromat; the stink of detergent heavy in the air, the gritty tile beneath his chest, the scrape of ragged fingernails as they dragged across his back… tugged at his jeans…

He bit his lip to shove away the vivid memory. He was in the now dammit! He didn't have time for flashbacks!

Andrew's hand was still at his throat, the other digging the gun into his temple. His body pressed up crushingly against him, and Shawn strangled back a pain filled retort. The man chuckled, pressing his thumb against his neck a little harder. Then Andrew shifted his weight, pulling his waist back slightly. The adjustment set off alarms in Shawn's brain, and he tried to shove back, only to gasp as fingers dug into his esophagus. His left hand came up to claw at the crushing pressure, while his right hand shot out, grasping desperately, to catch hold of the only weapon in reach… a framed picture of Gus and himself, backstage at an Aerosmith concert, and signed by Steven Tyler.

He didn't hesitate.

Swinging back with as much force as he could manage at that angle, he struck Andrew on the top of his head with the edge of the frame. Glass shattered and Andrew reeled back; the hold on Shawn's neck dragging him away from the wall.

The gun had just started to jerk away from his temple when it discharged.

He felt like he'd been slapped with a hot frying pan as he spun to the floor. He hit hard, his ribs flaring in secondary pain as he groaned chokingly. His hand came up, and he felt something wet on the side of his face. Perfect. He exhaled sharply, trying to fight off the dizziness that overtook him.

"Sssshaaawn…?"

Oh god… Gus!

He could see Andrew lying on the floor just inches from his outstretched hand. He'd delivered a pretty good blow, but the man looked like he was already beginning to shake it off as he started to sit up. Gasping, Shawn forced himself unsteadily to his feet and half-fell back towards the couch.

Gus was sitting in the same place Shawn had left him. A dark line of blood ran from a gash on the right side of his head. He looked around in confusion. His hand came up to touch his head, and he jerked it back with a hiss. "Sh-Shawn?"

"Gus… Gus we gotta get out of here, can you stand?"

Gus never had a chance to answer as Shawn felt the equivalent to a battering ram strike him between the shoulders.

"Shawn!"

The startled shout was eclipsed by a furious growl as Andrew slammed him to the floor. His breath deserted him, and he could only gape in pain as he waited for the beating he knew was coming. The first strike buried in his kidneys, and he groaned as he struggled painfully to suck in air. The second hit landed just above the first, driving away the single gasp he managed to take. He heard the next strike, but felt nothing. There was a moment's confusion. Had his body gone suddenly numb? And then Andrew collapsed over him, grunting heavily. The extra weight assured he wouldn't be breathing anytime soon… but just as he was contemplating passing out, Gus was crouched next to him, pushing at Andrew's bulk.

"Shawn… come on… get up!"

Finally, finally he took in a shuddering breath. His lungs burned painfully as he started to process oxygen, and his gasps had an odd whistle to them. However, there wasn't time to deal with that now. Already, Andrew was twitching as he started to come around. Apparently, nothing short of cannon was enough to stop him for long.

Grasping at Gus's outstretched hand, Shawn managed to gain his feet… and nearly lost them again. The room wouldn't remain stationary as he swayed sickly. His lungs still burned, and he realized something was very, very wrong.

"Gus…" He managed, then felt his knees give out. Gus managed to brace him before he could drop all the way to the floor.

"Damn!" He heard the other man exclaim as he was dragged to the couch. Gus whirled, his hands digging frantically through the litter on the coffee table. "Shawn… Shawn, where's my phone!"

"It's"… wheeze…. "dead…."

Gus looked back at him, horrified. "Shawn?" I

t was getting harder to draw in breath, and with sickening realization, he understood why. That last hit… And his eyes widened as something moved behind his friend.

Gus!

He had no voice!

Terrified, he could only watch as Gus was hit from behind, his body falling bonelessly to the floor. Andrew walked towards him slowly… and then past him. He was out of sight for just a few seconds, but when he returned, he was holding his weapon. He sat down on the couch next to Shawn, turned sideways to face him. With one hand, he ran a finger down Shawn's temple. He couldn't even jerk away; it was all he could do to draw in breath. The paralyzing terror from that night was back… as were the memories that flashed through his mind. He tried to raise his arms, but they barely moved. His fingers twitched spasmodically. Struggling with panic, his eyes found Gus on the floor.

And he was suddenly choked with rage.

He tried to scream, to curse, to say anything… but nothing passed his lips but air. The finger on his face slid down his cheek, trailing roughly over stubble, to touch his lower lip. He tried to twist away, but the hand clenched around his jaw. From the corner of his eye, he watched Andrew raise the revolver. The eyes that stared at him were dilated, and foul breath panted in his face as the creature next to him shifted closer. Shawn squeezed shut his eyes as the gun followed the path Andrew's finger had taken earlier. It was happening again… it was happening again dammit! And he couldn't stop it! He couldn't even cry out for help! He could barely even breathe! His chest rattled as he tried to gasp, and his vision darkened briefly. He couldn't feel Andrew's hands anymore, but he sensed the man hadn't stopped. Something tugged at him, but he was rapidly approaching a point where he didn't care anymore. He inhaled roughly… released it… inhaled again… released…

…And couldn't draw his next breath.

He barely noticed it when something crashed.

The sound of gunshots was muted… dreamlike.

As everything darkened out completely, he could swear he heard a soft voice say his name.

0o0o0o0

The call came though when he was five minutes from the apartment. Someone had called in reporting they heard gunfire coming from the room above them. Lassiter mashed his foot on the accelerator, flipping on his siren at the same time. Next to him, O'Hara grabbed for the radio, acknowledging their location, and requesting backup.

They arrived in less than three minutes. Shoving through the front door, they passed an older woman in a housedress- probably the landlady. Barely sparing her a glance, Carlton darted for the stairs. When they reached the third floor, Lassiter slowed, pulling his weapon. O'Hara did the same, keeping a few steps back. There were only four doors down the hallway. The one they were headed for was the last one on the left.

Sliding along the wall until he was next to the door, Lassiter pivoted to face it while O'Hara, gun poised, stood just to the side. Giving a mental two-count, the detective met his partner's eyes. Then, squaring his jaw, he kicked in the door. "SBPD…"

The room was dark, and his eyes took a second to adjust. A large shape spun from its position on the couch, hand raised. There was a muzzle flare, and Carlton reacted instantly, raising his gun and firing two rounds into the lunging man. As the suspect crumpled to the floor, Lassiter heard a low groan. O'Hara brushed past him quickly. "Shawn?"

With the light from the hall, he could see the psychic reclined on the couch. Another shape moved near Spencer's feet… Guster. The man was pushing himself up weakly, and Carlton quickly stooped to help him. At this point, O'Hara had holstered her weapon and pulled out her flashlight, shining it Spencer's body. His shirt had been torn open, revealing his badly bruised torso. The brace around his midsection had been tampered with, and the button on his jeans had been undone. Then O'Hara made a small cry and the flashlight tumbled to the floor; but not before Lassiter saw what had made her panic.

The psychic wasn't breathing.

Releasing Gus, Carlton stood quickly and grabbed his partner's arm. "Call an ambulance!" Not waiting to see if she responded, he quickly pulled Spencer's body off the couch and laid him on the floor. Pressing his fingertips against his throat, he could make out a weak pulse. Gus hovered at his shoulder, his eyes wide. Lassiter glanced up at him. "Do you know CPR?"

Gus seemed to freeze for just a second, and Carlton grabbed his wrist.

"Gus!"

"Y- yeah…"

"Then get ready- I'll start breathing, but I need you in case we have to start chest compressions!" Bending quickly, Carlton tilted Spencer's head back, checked his airway, and pinched shut his nose. Two slow breaths, and pause, head tilted to the side. Nothing. Two more breaths, stop to listen, check the pulse, start again…

"Ambulance is on the way, ETA is four minutes!"

O'Hara's voice was relegated to the back. Carlton continued to force breath into the non-responsive man on the floor. Another breath, another check, pause… another breath another check, pause… another breath…

Spencer coughed, inhaled jerkily, and moaned.

"Oh thank God…" said Juliet softly as she placed her hand on the gasping man's arm. Lassiter leaned back, wiping his face as Gus snagged the blanket off the couch and draped it over his friend, who had begun shivering.

A minute later, the EMTs arrived. One of the medics crouched by the body of Andrew Drayton while two other emergency techs converged on Spencer. Finding Drayton dead, the first man proceeded to assist his partners in strapping Spencer to a back-board. O'Hara and Guster moved aside to allow them to work. Then they lifted their burden and rushed for the door, Lassiter, O'Hara, and Gus following in their wake.

0o0o0o0

For the second time in as many days, Henry Spencer found himself sitting in a hospital. This time, both his son and his best friend Gus had been admitted. Gus required twelve stitches to close the gash on his forehead, and three more to deal with another wound on the back of his head. Thankfully, though, those were his only injuries, and his doctor had cleared him to go home. At the moment he was picking up his prescription. Henry knew, however, that Gus had no more intention of leaving than he did. Currently, Shawn was still in surgery. This second attack had resulted in complications to Shawn's earlier injury. At one point in the assault, his broken rib had shifted, puncturing the right lung. In addition to that, he'd nearly been shot, though the bullet had only grazed his temple. But it was the internal damage the doctors were most concerned with.

Henry picked up a magazine, and then dropped it again. He shook his head ruefully. All his life, Shawn had managed to do just the right thing to send his emotional tolerance through the roof. Most of the time, it was through pranks and misdeeds that tested his ability not to lock his son in a closet. Other times… many other times… it was through injury- driving Henry to the point of frantic concern… Dealing with his broken ankle from falling out of a tree-house, patching a laceration he got from washing dishes, and that one time, wondering how a kid could end up needing stitches because he'd somehow gotten impaled by a fork in the school cafeteria.

Twice.

Mostly, however, much as he hated to admit it, it was frustrated disappointment that predominated. Or, at least it used to be. When Shawn announced he was starting up this psychic business, Henry had never felt more like writing off the kid as hopeless. But then he solved a case. And then another. And suddenly… suddenly the police were actually asking for him. And before Henry could even begin to prepare for it, his son had a career! Oh, he never thought it would fly. Not the first two weeks… not even after the first six months. But it had been over a year now. And, grudgingly, Henry was coming to realize this could very well be the real deal.

But now this had happened.

He'd seen what could result when a trained cop, with years on the force, experienced an attack.

Sometimes, they got through it, put it behind them, and went forward.

And sometimes they didn't.

He worried his son might be one of the latter.

"Mr. Spencer?"

He looked up to see Gus walking across the waiting room floor. His head was wrapped in a white bandage, and he was clutching a small bag.

"Any word yet?"

Henry shook his head. "No."

Gus sighed, sitting next to him heavily. They didn't share platitudes with each other. Nothing was said about 'toughness', or 'stubbornness', or 'he wouldn't just to prove us wrong'. Instead, they sat in silence.

It was another hour before a doctor, the same one that had treated Shawn a little over a week ago, approached them wearily. Henry and Gus both stood, the former raising his brows in question.

"He's out of surgery, and is in ICU. Now I know you want to see him, but I want to…"

Henry held up his hand. "Look, doc, I know you'd like to give a rundown of what he's been through and what to expect. But as far as I'm concerned, I've been there and done that, more often than I can count. It's been a long night, and I, for one, am already not looking forward to sleeping on that god-awful cot again. So, if you don't mind, we'd like to see Shawn now."

Pressing his lips together in an understanding smile, the doctor held out his arm. "Right this way."

O0o0o0o0o

A/N: I originally listed this story as M- but the problem with doing that is the story is hidden. So, bravely braving the ratings gods, I adjusted it somewhat so that it could be seen and cringed at by all! LOL!! 

Anyhow, thanks all for your fabulous reviews!!!