SHOT IN THE DARK - MISSING SCENE

By Beth Green

/////

There was no shelter. Shawn's eyes narrowed in unconscious response to the brightness of the sun. The harsh light was mercifully blocked by two rapidly approaching figures. Gus easily beat Juliet in their impromptu footrace.

A dark face leaned down to meet Shawn at his own level. He did not realize how much he longed to hear his best friend's familiar voice until Gus' words poured out in a frantic stream. "Shawn! Oh my God, Shawn! I can't believe this! You've been shot. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Oh my God …"

Shawn raised a hand to put a stop to the flow of words, surprised at how much effort was required to perform the simple task. "You're repeating yourself there, buddy."

Gus' eyes widened as his gaze fixed upon Shawn's trembling hand. The dark-skinned man paled noticeably, his Adam's apple working as he dry-swallowed. It took longer than it should have for Shawn to figure out what was going on. He took his eyes off of Gus and followed the direction of his friend's line of sight to stare at the dried blood on his own hand.

The graphic reminder of his ordeal seemed to treble the pain in his shoulder. The steady, continuous ache grew and grew until there was room for nothing else in his brain other than the messages from the pain signals screaming along his nerves in an agonizing, rising crescendo to peak in sharp, blinding intensity. Someone may have shouted. Shawn could not be sure what he heard over the screaming. His body no longer under his control, his muscles spasmed. He wanted to curl around the pain, regardless of the consequences. Shawn was vaguely aware when his body began to slide down and off of the supporting automobile. The pain began to ease, enough that part of his mind was freed so that he could be grateful when he did not hit the ground. "… Th-thanks."

Voices spoke over other voices in a frantic jumble of questions, answers, and orders. Shawn decided that it was not worth the effort it would take to sort the sounds into words. Hands touched and pulled and his head was resting on something soft. The pain eased, and his mind began to drift. If he was in shock, Shawn decided that shock was a *good* thing, because finally, after hours of unrelenting physical ache, the pain in his shoulder began to fade.

Maybe he was asleep; dreaming. Maybe this had all been a terrible nightmare. Shawn's wishful thinking was shattered by reality when his Dad's gruff voice intruded upon his drifting thoughts. "Shawn, I'm sorry, this is gonna hurt." Shawn opened his eyes at that comment, spurred to sudden wakefulness at the threat to his tenuous peace. He saw a hand reaching for his shoulder and found the strength to reach out and stop it before it could reach its destination.

He looked up into his father's face, staring into the face of the man whose lessons may have just saved his life; the same man whose lessons closed off almost every sane or reasonable career opportunity thanks to his unique "training." What Shawn had meant as an order came out as a plea: "Don't." He tried but failed to convey the seriousness of the message with his body language.

Henry shook his head, seemingly unmoved by his son's plea. "All your jumping around opened up your shoulder wound. Because bleeding to death is not an option, you don't have a choice."

Shawn did not want to hear his father's words. There was always a choice. He chose not to loosen his grip on Henry's forearm. His father looked up and away from his son. "A little help here, Detective."

Lassiter crouched down next to Henry and easily removed Shawn's hand. "Spencer, you don't have the time to waste waiting for an ambulance. Your father knows what he's doing. Let him do it." Lassiter's hands abruptly became restraints.

Shawn's "No-o-oo-oo!" became a long, drawn-out cry of pain; his eyes squeezed tight, he felt hands upon him, preventing him from moving as bulky bandages were bound tightly to his shoulder from the front and behind. It seemed to take forever before his father was done torturing him.

Long, agonizing minutes passed before his father finally announced, "That's it; you can relax."

Shawn opened his eyes, unashamed at the tears he could feel leaking down the sides of his face. He ran a tongue over dry lips, seeking moisture that was not there, and glared up at his father. His voice a hoarse croak, Shawn uttered words recalled from a lifetime ago: "You must really hate me."

As in the past, Shawn's pointed declaration did not receive a response from its target.

For long minutes afterward, Shawn lay panting and sweating. His pillow had not moved the entire time. To distract himself from the pain, he decided to try and figure out what he was lying on. He moved his head to the side enough so that he could see that his "pillow" was wearing dark pants. Okay, if Dad and Lassie were with him, Jules must be with the psycho crazy bastard who liked to play with guns. That left …

"… Gu-s." Shawn frowned at how weak his voice sounded.

Shawn felt his pillow move as a familiar face leaned over him. "I'm right here."

Shawn relaxed and let his eyes fall closed. He opened them a long second later to add, "You're wearing my shirt." His eyes closed again and a small smile pulled at his lips as Gus indignantly replied, "YOUR shirt? Excuse me, this is MY shirt. And you are so busted. Do you know how many of my shirts I found over at your place? *Too* many, that's for damn sure."

Shawn let Gus' words distract him from the ever-present pain. The approaching whine of an ambulance siren promised that the worst would soon be over.

/////

\\\\\

Author's note:

Is it wrong of me to want to continue this because we never got to see Shawn in a hospital gown?