Blame Laura. She made the mistake of telling my Muse she couldn't do something. Not that she was incapable of doing it, but that it was forbidden.

With a few notable exceptions, my Muse takes this as a personal challenge.

This was not one of those exceptions.

Disclaimer: I write this and you think I own them? Do you even know what the word 'comedy' means?

One last note: Heed the warnings. I do not use them lightly.

It can't be true. It just can't. Lassie's wrong. It's not him. There's been some mistake. It can't be him. It just c- Please don't let it be him . . .

Shawn saw the flashing lights ahead and some part of his brain said he needed to slow down now, but the rest of his brain told that part to shut up and actually cranked the speed up just a little more.

He braked at the last possible second, putting his bike into a small skid, then as soon as it had come to a stop—more or less—he was off of it, leaving it laying on its side but not even caring what that might do to the finish or the chrome.

. . .

(He would wonder later where those scratches came from and be unable to come up with an answer. That would scare him until he was subjected to another mental sneak attack replay of how his life had changed in an instant. A week after that he would sell the bike and buy a tiny foreign compact with high safety ratings and excellent gas mileage.)

(Gus never said a word when Shawn handed the keys over to the new owner and then came back with dinner that evening in his new car.)

. . .

He ran towards the lump of twisted metal that used to have faded yellow paint but was now covered in fire suppressing foam.

Someone put out an arm that hit him chest height and stopped him, the other arm coming around his back to hold on tight when he fought to get free.

A buzzing filled his ears but it didn't immediately coalesce into recognizable sounds.

"Spencer! Spencer, stop! You can't go over there! He's gone! There's nothing you can do!"

. . .

(He would later sit in a bar with that same person—on the one year anniversary of this night to be specific—the same voice repeating a variation on those words—though they were a little more slurred over the fifth glass of whiskey—and then end the night with those same arms wrapped around his chest to keep him from faceplanting as he was dragged up the stairs to his apartment, barely coherent but still not drunk enough to stop the memories.)

(Neither participant in that night would ever mention it again.)

. . .

"Shawn?"

The quiet voice broke through his panic and desperation and he was able to look away from the wreck to where Juliet was standing.

"Jules," he whispered, a broken, painful sound dragged from a throat hoarse from screaming into the wind the whole way here.

She nodded at the person holding Shawn and he was released.

He almost collapsed until she caught him.

"Jules," he repeated.

"I'm so sorry, Shawn," she said as she hugged him tightly, supporting most of his weight, and doing her best to stave off suffocation as his grip unconsciously tightened.

"It's not him," he whispered. "It can't be him."

She didn't speak for a moment, and when she did it was obvious she was crying.

"It was him, Shawn. I'm sorry, but it was."

His body went limp then, his strings cut, his head falling to her shoulder as she did her best to lower them both to the ground before they fell.

She kept her grip tight, rocking him gently as his tears soaked her shoulder and his soft sobs broke her heart.

She looked up to her partner and he just shook his head and walked away.

She lowered her head to rest against Shawn's and settled in to wait out the flood.

. . .

(He would avoid seeing her for almost a month, too embarrassed to face her after his break down, but he couldn't let her think she was unappreciated, so he did everything he could think of—short of actually telling her face to face—that without her there might have been another casualty that night.)

(She would finally seek him out and start the night by yelling at him for his stupidity in believing that was something to be embarrassed about, ending it on his couch with him crying into her shoulder again as he told her stories of his youth.)

. . .

Gus was waiting at the station when Shawn was brought back by Juliet and Lassiter.

The worry on his face melted into grief when he saw his best friend's slouching form—the lights on but clearly nobody home—being led up the steps and into the station like a small child, his hand clasped tightly in Juliet's lest he get lost or stop walking.

"Shawn?" Gus said and then inhaled a deep breath to calm himself when there was no immediate reaction.

"Shawn?" Juliet said softly, bending slightly to put herself in his line of sight.

He blinked and looked up, then around, his face draining of all color as he realized where he was.

He made an indistinguishable sound of distress and then turned and bolted, hitting the exit door so hard he would certainly have bruises later.

Gus followed, Juliet and Lassiter on his heels, and then stopped at the sight of Shawn kneeling on the sidewalk at the foot of the stairs retching and puking until he almost couldn't breathe.

Juliet started to follow, but Gus put up a hand and went down the steps, crouching by Shawn's side as the downed man hugged himself, shivering as he rocked back and forth.

"Shawn?" he said gently.

"He's gone, Gus. He's gone and I couldn't stop it and I- I- I-"

Gus put a hand on Shawn's shoulder. The contact jolted the psychic and he turned his face upwards.

"Gus?"

The voice that spoke it was so small and lost that Gus felt his own tears well over and start to fall.

He knelt, deliberately ignoring the fact that the knees of his 350 suit were about an inch and two minutes worth of slanted sidewalk and gravitational pull away from being drenched in half-digested pineapple pizza, and pulled Shawn into a hug.

"He knew, Shawn. He knew."

. . .

(It would be over a year before Shawn ate either pineapple in any form or pizza of any kind.)

(He would never again eat fish.)

. . .

Shawn surprised them all when he stood and stared up at the building towering over him, the place his father had served and protected from for over twenty years, the place Shawn had learned the ins and outs of police work, the place the two of them had had their most bitter fight, and the place Henry had stunned Shawn with a show of overwhelming love and trust by vouching for fake psychic skills, setting into motion a crazy scheme to defraud the Santa Barbara Police.

"Gus, I need you to promise me something," Shawn said quietly.

"Anything," Gus said immediately.

Shawn's eyes came down. "Promise me you'll play dumb."

Gus frowned. "Play dumb?"

Shawn looked back at the building.

"Yeah. No reason both of us should go to jail."

Then he was off, jogging back up the steps.

He stopped at the top where Juliet and Lassiter waited.

Without a word he cupped Juliet's face in his hands and drew her into a kiss, a desperate, searing kiss that stole her breath and made her head spin.

Breaking the kiss, his forehead pressed against hers, he whispered, "We could have been fantastic. Love you, Jules."

He released her to blink and gape at him, then turned to Lassiter and grabbed his hand, shaking it vigorously.

"It's been fun, Lassie," he said, smiling slightly at the look of baffled confusion on the other man's face. "And it was nothing personal."

With that cryptic statement he let go and walked into the building.

The three of them stood there, puzzling out the odd actions and words, until Gus' eyes bugged out in understanding. "Shawn! NO!" he yelled and took the stairs three at a time, blowing past the detectives who shared another confused look, then followed after for the second time.

. . .

(All three of them would lose sleep for some time to the unsettling replay of those few moments in their dreams, the look on Shawn's face, his tone of voice as he spoke haunting them with its foreignness and stark resignation.)

(Shawn gained three eagle-eyed babysitters from that, all of which he feigned cluelessness about, though he would wonder at times if they actually sat down and scheduled who would keep an eye on him, check in on him, make sure he didn't try to do anything else absolutely insane that would cause all three of them enough guilt to put a shrink's kids through Harvard law and medicine.)

. . .

The bullpen fell silent in a wave that stayed just ahead of Shawn as he strode purposefully down the aisle, every last gaze drawn to him.

He went straight to her office, opening the door with far less of his usual flair, but somehow with much more effect.

He walked in, not bothering to shut the door behind himself, walked right up to her desk, resolutely ignored the Kleenex filling her trashcan and the red-rimmed eyes now free of mascara or any makeup whatsoever that watched him.

She stood, swallowing her own grief in preparation for facing Shawn's, but got no further in her condolences than opening her mouth.

Shawn spoke first, his voice clear, strong, and loud enough to carry throughout the areas of the station surrounding the chief's office.

"I'm not psychic."

If there had been any sound being produced at that time it would have stopped right then.

. . .

(There were those who would swear later that the earth itself stopped for a moment, so great was the collective shock.)

(No one who was actually there would refute them.)

. . .

Karen stared at Shawn, eyes wide, mouth still hanging open, frozen in place by his declaration.

When she remained that way Shawn spun around to where Lassiter was standing in the doorway with Juliet and Gus, all three of them bearing a striking resemblance to the Chief of Police for Santa Barbara at that moment.

He walked over, held out his hands, palms down.

"Lassiter?" he said. "You want to do the honors?"

Lassiter stared at him, mouth working, then glanced at Karen, his expression one of a man desperately seeking direction.

"Anyone?" Shawn said, turning to the officers and detectives who were in the bullpen, frozen as well. Though he didn't move toward anyone, when he looked at them they shied away, eyes flicking to Karen then back to Shawn for the duration of his attention being focused on them.

Shawn frowned, then reached down to take Lassiter's cuffs from his belt.

Lassiter jumped back as though Shawn had pointed a weapon at him, his own hand actually going to his gun.

Shawn gave him an odd look, then turned to Juliet.

She offered no resistance to him, except to stare at him and work her mouth, looking somewhat like a goldfish.

If Shawn had been able to even conceive of the idea of humor he would have laughed—or at least smiled—at that.

. . .

(He wouldn't laugh for ten months, three weeks, four days, sixteen hours, thirteen minutes, and seven seconds. When he finally did, he didn't stop for fifteen minutes, thirty-six seconds.)

(He would feel guilty for almost a week after that before he would laugh again, an involuntary act that would open the door to his sense of humor eventually returning to levels very near what he regularly experienced before The Moment.)

. . .

He took the cuffs, snapped one around his wrist, and was trying to fix the other to his free wrist behind his back when Karen spoke.

"Sit down, Mr. Spencer."

Shawn looked up, his hands behind his back stilling at her tone.

"Detectives, if you'll shut the doors behind yourselves . . ."

Juliet and Lassiter took a step back so in sync as to appear it had been practiced.

Gus blinked when he was pulled back with them, the doors closing in his face.

Shawn sat.

Karen talked.

The station watched.

And Gus wished he knew how to read lips.

Then Shawn shot to his feet, the energy everyone was used to seeing from him expended in a new and frightening way.

He threw things. He yelled loud enough to rattle the windows, though the exact words weren't quite distinguishable through Karen's answering shouts. He kicked over the chair and he threw a punch at Karen that she dodged before snagging his wrist and using his momentum to spin him around and pin to her desk—clear of anything that might cause Shawn pain thanks to the arm he'd swept across it a few moments ago.

Once she had him contained, she spoke again.

Gus was no longer alone in his wish.

When she finished Shawn's eyes closed and he relaxed.

She let him go and he slowly brought his hands around to push himself up from the desk.

He stared at her, his lips forming a few words.

She just shook her head and then went to sit behind her desk, the effect of non-verbally dismissing him somewhat diminished by the fact that she had nothing on her desk she could pretend to read.

Shawn turned and left anyway, head hanging down, not a word spoken as he headed for the exit.

Karen finally gave up the pretense of working on something and joined the three of them at the door.

"Mr. Guster, if you could see that Shawn gets safely home? And isn't left alone?"

Gus nodded and then took off at a jog to catch up to Shawn before silently pacing him out the doors.

Karen looked to her lead detective team, though her words carried to the entire station as Shawn's had.

"Mr. Spencer believes that the negative emotions he is feeling in regards to his father's unexpected passing are temporarily interfering with his abilities. I'll be keeping in touch with him and Mr. Guster and let you know when he'll be available again for consultation."

. . .

(Psych would remain closed for three months.)

(Shawn Spencer would resume his duties as head psychic for the Santa Barbara Police Department two days later with the apprehension of the previously unknown driver who hit his father broadside on a sunny afternoon and then fled the scene.)

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