Hey! Remember this story? Let's be real, probably not.

Just keep in mind that I started this story in 2010, so this is 2010 Lassiter (so like season 4—but Shawn and Juliet weren't dating yet)

OooOooO

In my time as a detective I've seen some seriously disturbing things.

We're talking the grizzliest murders you can imagine. Men and women who kill their own children. Serial killers and rapists and kidnappers—you name it, I've seen it. Sometimes people ask me how I sleep at night. How can I live my day-to-day life so casually when I'm constantly seeing that darkest side of mankind?

Easily. That's my job. That's what I signed up for. I sleep easily every night because I know that there are brave men and women like myself who don't stand for the horrible things that happen. Who will bring lowlife criminals to justice.

But I've realized recently that sometimes justice isn't enough.

Because in all of my years on the force, out of all of the horrifying crime scenes that I have processed, out of all of the crimes that I have solved—even out of all of the crimes that I have failed to solve—nothing has ever haunted me as much as the sight of my partner on her hands and knees, covered in blood, screaming over the body of Shawn Spencer.

Not even close.

I didn't even know that Spencer was there that night—I should have, that damn Psychic found his way onto every single crime scene I ever—Well, the point is that I didn't. I was coming up the alley and I could hear O'Hara's voice. I could tell that she was in distress but it didn't make sense. O'Hara would never beg for mercy from some scumbag. And her voice was stronger than it would be if she had been hurt.

It made no sense until I saw Spencer. Then that made sense, but everything else stopped making sense.

The perp was dead, lying just a few yards away from O'Hara. Justice had been served, but that sure as hell didn't make the situation any better.

Look, I don't want to get all mushy and pretend that Spencer and I were all buddy-buddy just because he's dead. We weren't friends and, to be honest, he annoyed the hell out of me. The very morning of the day he died he got a hold of my cell phone and changed the language settings to Spanish. I fiddled around with it as he watched, moving from various vantage points throughout the station, for half an hour and was about to throw it into a wall before I realize that O'Hara speaks Spanish. I didn't see him again until I turned the corner of the alley.

But underneath the fourth grade personality he had one of the greatest investigative minds I ever saw, and I'll always respect him for that. He didn't deserve to die. Guster didn't deserve for him to die. Henry didn't either. O'Hara certainly didn't.

Since it happened she's just been…I don't know. She gets her work done. She refused to take time off. O'Hara's a top of the line detective and nothing can get in the way of that, not even this. But I don't have to ask her if we can ride in silence anymore.

For as much as she's changed, Guster and Henry have morphed a hundred times more. I haven't seen either of them nearly as much. I saw them at the funeral and then maybe once or twice besides that and…it's just…it's wrong. In the second that it took for me to turn that corner everything changed. Everything and everyone. Even me. And yeah, we killed the bad guy, which is great for humanity, but that doesn't change the fact that he killed Spencer. It doesn't change the fact that O'Hara isn't even O'Hara anymore.

Justice was served. But this time justice wasn't enough.

OooOooO

Carlton pulled up to the curb and jumped out of his car, immediately spotting his partner's vehicle. He also noticed a motorcycle that seemed vaguely familiar, but chose to ignore it for the time being. There were more pressing matters at hand.

Lassiter glanced around and ascertained that there were three different directions in which Juliet could have followed the suspect. He quickly dispatched officers to pursue two of the paths, taking the central one himself: a moderately wide alleyway that turned off sharply to the left. The detective figured that that was most likely the way that the perp had gone, as the other two directions consisted primarily of open road.

When he was about halfway down the alleyway Lassiter heard his partner's voice. He immediately slunk to one side of the passage, moving quietly yet quickly, gun at the ready. As Lassiter got closer, O'Hara's voice became clearer. Something was wrong. The detective could hear tears in his partner's voice. Carlton quickened his pace. His mind was racing, imagining everything he could possibly find when he turned that corner.

Lassiter came to the end of the alley just as O'Hara started screaming.

He threw caution to the wind, stepping out from behind the wall, gun raised, searching for a target. His customary declaration of identity died in his throat as he took in the scene before him.

Juliet was on her knees in the small open area. She was facing Lassiter, but hadn't taken notice of his arrival. She was covered in blood, crying and screaming. Her hands gripped the shoulders of a prone figure on the ground with a whole through his stomach. Lassiter felt his heart stop for a moment when he realized who it was.

Shawn Spencer. He was dead.

"Wake up, Shawn! Don't you dare do this to me!"

Carlton swallowed and slowly holstered his gun, taking a moment to compose himself. He muttered something about making sure paramedics were on their way to the officer who had accompanied him.

"O'Hara," Lassiter called gently, approaching his partner as if she were a wounded animal.

She didn't seem to hear him. If anything, Juliet became more frantic. She began shaking Shawn's shoulders none-too-gently.

"Please! Please, Shawn, wake up!"

"O'Hara! O'Hara! Juliet!" Carlton built up to practically shouting. He placed his hand on his partner's shoulder hoping to ground her to reality in some way.

Juliet shoved his hand away, smearing a streak of the psychic's blood onto his sleeve as she did so.

Carlton stared at the redness for a second before returning his attention back to his partner.

"Come on, Shawn!" She continued to plead, her voice desperate and broken.

"Stop it, O'Hara," Lassiter told her, sickened by the sight of her fruitlessly shaking Spencer's body, "He's gone. Let him go."

Juliet shook her head vehemently.

The older detective felt an unprecedented level of compassion well up within him at the sight before him. Juliet O'Hara, a woman he'd come to think of as strong and confident and in control, looked completely lost and absolutely broken.

He reached out and placed both hands on Juliet's shoulders, gently yet firmly pulling her away from Spencer's body. He murmured meaningless words of comfort as she struggled to get back to Shawn.

"No! Let me go! Shawn!"

Juliet thrashed violently, her heel connecting with Lassiter's shin on more than one occasion. But still Lassiter held fast, enduring the occasional blow until Juliet calmed enough for him to turn her to him and away from the body of her friend. She crumbled immediately, wrapping her arms around his chest and burying her face into his shoulder.

And so Carlton held his partner as she cried, heartbroken. He looked at the dead psychic on the ground and felt a pang in his chest. He was so young. He had never realized how young the kid was.

As paramedics swarmed the scene far too late, Lassiter noticed another form on the ground. He didn't want to move to investigate further, but even from his current position he could clearly make out the shape of a body. A few feet away from the body he saw a gun that had evidently clattered away from the man when he hit the ground.

Vaguely Lassiter realized that the dead man on the ground must be Spencer's murderer. O'Hara must have killed him. That was a good thing. That should be a good thing, at least. That was justice, of the poetic variety, maybe, but justice all the same. Right had been done.

So why did he feel so empty?

Carlton Lassiter didn't sleep a wink that night.

OooOooO

This, my friends, is the true definition of procrastination. I started this story when I was fifteen years old. I haven't updated in two years and yet, the week before finals, I am struck by inspiration. Crazy, right?

Anyways, this really will be the last chapter. I'd say it's been a blast and I guess that that would be mostly true? This story is extremely depressing. But it's been fascinating for me from a psychological standpoint. I really like that kind of stuff and don't generally explore it in my other stuff, so it was an interesting test to my writing skills I suppose.

One reason of many that this chapter took so long is that I really had no idea what angle to approach it from. Part of me wanted to make this based on a Shawn and Lassiter friendship, but I don't honestly think that there was one to work with going off of season 4. And then Lassiter keeps his emotions close to the chest, so I didn't want him to be like "I acted like I hated him but I really actually liked him" because I don't think he'd be like that. So I chose to focus more on how the event affected the way he looks at the law and his relationship with Juliet. I'm interested to hear what y'alls thoughts are!

I also know the flashback is basically just a rewrite of the first chapter's, but I tried to put it from Lassiter's perspective to see how that changes things. Also it's kind of fun to see 15 year old me vs 19 year old me. I feel like, sadly, I haven't improved all that much. I need to write more.

OKAY, this AN has been super long. Thanks for sticking with it, if you did! I'd love to hear what you think! Thanks for reading! :D