So, did anyone else forget about this story, or was it just me? I'm really sorry it's been so long (like, over a year or something ridiculous like that), but I just wasn't inspired to write this chapter until recently. Thanks for reading!

OooOooO

I always wanted the kid to be just like me.

I knew I wanted my son to be a cop the second that nurse told me that I had a baby boy. He'd follow in his old man's footsteps. Make me proud every step of the way.

It happens like that a lot on the force; a family will send generation after generation to the academy like some kind of dynasty. I wanted that. I wanted to be the first of a long line of Detective Spencers, each better than the last, starting with my son.

But I didn't anticipate the problem with my master plan: he wasn't like me. That kid was the ultimate evidence of the "nature" half of the "nature versus nurture" debate. He had a total lack of discipline and drive. He was embarrassingly disorganized and always up to asinine antics. It's not that he didn't have the skillset—the kid had more talent than I ever dreamed of—he just didn't want it. I never gave up on him, though. I kept pushing him, kept guiding him, always hoping that he would see the light and put that gift of his to good use.

As he was growing up that's what gave me the courage to do some of the things I did. Staring down the barrel of a gun I'd sometimes imagine what would happen if I died—whether he would be angry about my death and vow to keep the world safe from the dirt bags who killed me, or if he would be so inspired by my sacrifice that he'd decide he wanted to be a hero just like his dad. At my funeral he'd be handed a folded flag and he'd be reminded of who I was and what I died for, and he'd know I did it for him. I gave my life to make the world safe for my only son. My boy.

I never once imagined what it would be like the other way around.

Not once did I think that I'd ever experience these emotions—that I'd be so furious about his death that I'd swear vengeance on monsters like the one who killed him, or that I'd be so in awe of the man I raised that I'd wish that I was more like him, so warm and caring and genuine. I never pictured his funeral. Never thought that it would be me who was staring down at that folded flag just trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my only son was dead.

But it did happen, and as I sat with my eyes trained on that piece of fabric that meant so much more than anyone could ever know, I tried desperately to do for my boy what I imagined him doing for me. I thought about who he was and what he died for.

He was my son. He was the screw up who always managed to do right by people. He was a friend. He was a coworker. He was an idealist. He was the kind of person who would give his heart and soul to helping someone he didn't even know.

He was the kind of person who would die to help someone he cared about. And that's what he did. He didn't know he'd die, but I know my son well enough to know that he'd have done the same thing even if he knew. He would never have been able to stand by and wait while someone he loved was in danger, and for that I am so damned proud of the kid.

Shawn wasn't the same man that I am. He was so much better.

OooOooO

Henry Spencer was driving like he'd never driven before. His mind was focused on only one thing: Getting to the hospital as fast as humanly possible.

He didn't think about why he had to get there or what he would find when he did—he couldn't think about that. He wouldn't.

Getting that phone call was nothing less than a surreal experience. In his time on the force he'd become very familiar with the infamous call, even having to make it a few times himself. Over the years, Henry had heard more superstitions on the matter than he could remember. The main one that had stayed with him, though, was the claim that people who received the call knew what it was about the second they answered the phone—some knew even before. A sort of creeping sensation of dread preceded the feared phone call that changed lives forever.

Henry now knew that the fabled sensation was nothing more than an urban legend. When he answered his phone that evening he was in a state of blissful ignorance.

"Henry Spencer," He answered his home line in his customary fashion.

"Henry-" Chief Vick's voice came through the receiver.

"Oh, hi, Karen. I'm sorry, but do you mind if I call you back in a little while? Store is about to close and I need to return these steaks—idiots gave me some sort of sirloin instead of ribeye."

"It's Shawn, Henry." Karen pushed forwards, ignoring Henry's request.

The older Spencer sighed. "What's he done now?" He asked wearily.

"There's been an accident."

"What sort of accident? He broke something, didn't he? Please tell me whatever it is is insured," Henry rambled, completely oblivious.

"No, Henry. Shawn has been in an accident."

Henry was silent. He was standing frozen in his kitchen, his mind racing with the possible ramifications of Karen's statement.

"I'm so sorry, Henry," Karen spoke up after a few seconds, "but he didn't make it."

Henry Spencer remained unmoving. His mind had stopped racing and started screaming. He was asleep. This was a nightmare. It had to be.

Please, please, please let this be a nightmare. Henry begged silently, the only visible sign of his anguish being the slight tremor in his hand that was holding the phone.

"They've taken him to the county hospital if you want to see him. I'm so sorry," The chief's voice was tinged with sadness as she had her one-sided conversation. She stayed on the line dutifully until Henry hung up the phone without a word.

As he drove, Henry's mind rebelled against his continued silence. Inside his head he was yelling, crying, screaming about the injustice of it all.

He's not even a cop, Henry thought, This isn't supposed to happen. This can't be happening.

Henry arrived at the hospital and ran at a sprint through the double doors of the front entrance. It didn't take him long to spot a red-faced, teary-eyed, miserable looking Detective O'Hara and a pale, sick-looking Detective Lassiter. The partners were sitting in the waiting room, but jumped up upon seeing him.

Juliet ran over to him immediately and embraced him as if he somehow had the power to bring Shawn back.

"I'm so sorry, Henry," O'Hara cried, her tears dampening his shirt instantly, "I'm so, so sorry," She pulled away and looked him in the eyes imploringly, "This is all my fault. He was just trying to protect me. I didn't know he was behind me—I told him to stay but he didn't listen—I killed the guy, but not before he shot Shawn. I never meant for this to happen. I didn't mean for—"

Henry cut her off by hugging her in the way she had hugged him seconds before. She was blaming herself. Henry Spencer may not have been there and he may not have even really known what had happened, but he knew that his son wouldn't want this girl to blame herself.

The two clung to each other for support for a few seconds before they broke apart.

"I'm so sorry," Juliet whispered one more time. Henry, unable to find his voice, nodded, hoping she'd understand what he meant.

"They're moving him down to the morgue," Detective Lassiter finally spoke up, "We'll be able to see him in a few minutes."

The Detective looked disheveled and shocked—a fact that surprised Henry considering the nature of the less than friendly relationship that he had had with Shawn.

The three didn't have to wait long. In the short amount of time before they were taken to see Shawn, O'Hara and Lassiter had a heart breaking conversation with Gus, and the Chief arrived, offering comfort to O'Hara and merciful distance to Henry.

About fifteen minutes after Henry had arrived, the group was informed that Shawn was ready to be seen. Henry's feet were taking him to the lower levels of the hospital before his brain was able to process what was happening. The nagging sense of dread that had been steadily growing slid up to a crescendo when the doors of the elevator opened in the morgue.

He could immediately see the body, although he was far enough away to deny its identity. It wasn't until he got closer that Henry could make out the unmistakable features of his son.

And it was there, standing over the body of his only child, that Henry Spencer finally allowed himself to cry.

OooOooO

Yeah, okay, that was tough to write. I'm not so sure I like it. I'm a 17 year old girl, the youngest in my family, and I've never had someone close to me die, so this was quite a stretch for me. I hope I did okay with it!

So, before I'm mobbed by readers of my other stories that haven't been updated in decades, let me explain that I've been writing this during school over the past couple of weeks. I didn't even realize what I was writing when I started, but eventually I realized that it could be added onto this story so I did!

I do intend on writing a Lassie chapter, but I'll be honest. It could be a day before I update, or it could be a year. This kind of story requires me to be inspired before I start writing, so thanks for your patience!

I'd really appreciate any feedback you can give me! Please review! Thanks :D