Hi, guys. I am really sorry for the long wait. Since it's nearing the end of the semester, I have had a lot of stuff to do. I also wasn't really sure where I wanted to go with the chapter and eventually decided to give you all what I had. I feel like I'm kind of running in circles with this fic… but I'm sure that'll get resolved.

Please please please review! I will love you forever.

Posted: Approx 12:50 PM EST Apr. 16, 2010.

Doctor Barnum stood in front of Shawn's parents. He could see the fear, the misery, and—more so in Henry than in his ex-wife—the accusation. This was possibly the worst part of his job: dealing with the family. Although, having to watch his favorite patients deteriorate came in a close second.

"Shawn has contracted a pretty severe surgical site infection," he told them.

Doctor Barnum was genuinely upset that things had taken such a turn. He really liked Shawn. The kid had a wicked sense of humor and a strong thirst for life. His suffering hit the doctor in a way that was, admittedly, sort of rare. Being a doctor for so long desensitized you to such things—but every once in a while, a patient really grew on you.

Shawn was one such patient, and he was so young. And Doctor Barnum knew what kind of chances he had with such a severe infection.

So, it was especially hard, when he was already distressed about the situation, to deal with the accusing glare of Mr. Spencer.

"How did this happen?"

"That's very hard to say. It could have been caused by any number of things—a careless visitor or nurse or intern… Low oxygen supply to the blood, which is a common symptom of heart conditions, can also be a factor. What we have to focus on now is making sure he gets through this."

Henry sighed and ran his hand over the top of his head. "Alright."

They slunk back to the waiting room, looking utterly defeated. He watched them go, hoping hard that he wouldn't have to break their hearts and tell them that their only son had died.

Gus was bent almost double in his chair, resting his forehead on his clasped hands, praying silently. No one was allowed in to see Shawn and he was going crazy with worry, reining himself in just enough to keep him in his seat. It had been a couple of hours since he'd gotten the call and he had been planted in the same exact spot since.

This was bad, and Gus was terrified, but he still had hope. Shawn had pulled so many crazy stunts before, had gotten himself into so much danger, and he always pulled through, always bounced back. He could bounce back from this.

Turning his head slightly, he looked at Henry, Madeleine, Jules, and Lassiter. There was something… really off about the way they were sitting, the looks on their faces. They were listless, blank.

Henry glanced over and their eyes met for a long moment, and Gus could see it. He had given up.

Shocked, Gus sat up and raked his gaze over all of them.

They had all given up.

They were waiting for Shawn to die.

This realization sent fury rushing through him. The combination of the fierce anger and his raw angst over Shawn's condition propelled him to his feet, and he turned and glared around at them.

"No," he snapped. "No. You can't give up on him."

Lassiter sighed. "Guster…"

"No! Shawn is in there fighting for his life, and you're all sitting here like—like you're just waiting for someone to come out and tell you he's dead! How is he… how's he supposed to fight if everyone he loves has written him off?"

He couldn't stay there with them anymore. He couldn't look at Juliet's face and see the shock and the guilt and the hurt, and he couldn't look at Henry and see the bone-crushing sorrow. He couldn't deal with their resignation.

"It's not over yet," he said weakly before rushing out of the waiting room.

He couldn't let himself admit defeat, like the rest of them had. He refused to believe his best friend, the person he knew better than anyone else in the world, was as good as dead. He had to be strong—for himself and for Shawn.

Santa Barbara, 2003

"It's been three weeks, Gus. Three weeks, and I still can't do anything." Shawn, stretched out on the couch, let out a frustrated breath and covered his eyes with his forearm.

"The doctor said recovery took an average of eight weeks, Shawn, and even then, you won't feel back to your old self for months. Don't push it."

"Whatever, man. It should be faster than this. Everything still hurts like it was friggin' yesterday." His chest ached, his collarbone, his arms. He had quickly learned to dread sneezing like he dreaded talking to his dad, as it sent sharp, shooting pain through him that lingered for hours. And, though he'd been advised not to stay in the same place or position for too long, moving around too much left him winded, like he'd just sprinted a mile.

"Gus," Shawn whined. "I hate this."

"Yeah, well, it's happening, so you better get used to it," Gus replied distractedly, starting in on a large stack of papers he'd just pulled from his briefcase.

"Wow, buddy. If I'm not mistaken, I'm the one who just recently had his sternum cracked open."

"Then stop complaining to me," was the retort.

Shawn groaned and rolled over. It was clear he wasn't getting any sympathy from his friend at the moment.

It was times like this he wished he had more friends.

The nurse saw his eyes roll into the back of his head, heard the monitors begin beeping loud and fast, and she knew what was happening.

Then, the beeping turned into a long, steady siren and he slumped bonelessly onto the bed.

In seconds, the room was a flurry of doctors and nurses. A crash cart was rolled in, his gown was ripped open, his chest prepared.

A jolt. His body jerked.

Again.

Again, and the heart monitor was still producing that high whine.

Again. A jolt. His body jerked. His heart started.

It was only a fleeting victory; the blood his heart was once again pumping through his system was still infected.

It had been five hours since Shawn's infection had been discovered. It was late, and Lassiter and Juliet had had to go back to the station after hour three to process some evidence.

Gus, Henry, and Madeleine had heard the commotion—the clamoring of doctors trying to save a life—and they were pleading silently to themselves that it wasn't Shawn.

But then there was a disheveled-looking Doctor Barnum, walking toward them with a chart clutched in front of him.

"Shawn went into cardiac arrest," he said tiredly, sadly. "We were able to bring him back relatively quickly, and he's stable for now. We have to start attacking this infection even more aggressively."

"Aggressively," Madeleine repeated—a question, but barely. Too shocked, too full of dread, she couldn't force volume or inflection into her tone.

"I think we should consider hyperbaric oxygen therapy," he told them. "It should get more oxygen into his wound and will help him fight off the infection."

"What does it involve?" Henry croaked.

"Shawn would be placed in a large plastic tube for a certain length of time, probably around two hours. During this time, the pressure inside the tube will be gradually increased and Shawn will be breathing pure oxygen. It's been proven effective in treating infection. The only issue is, we can't commence the treatment until his fever's gone down."

"Why's that?"

"He's been experiencing a lot of nausea and can't keep anything down. It's best if he can just relax and breathe normally in the hyperbaric chamber."

"Okay," Henry breathed finally. "Okay."

"Thank you, doctor," Madeleine added, aware that her ex-husband wasn't one to bother with social niceties even in the best of situations.

The doctor nodded and left them to their worry, their heartbreak, their despair.

Shawn was finally, miraculously, feeling better. Spending a couple hours in a cooling blanket did wonders for his fever and he had managed to swallow some water. He wondered idly if he was allowed to keep the cooling blanket on in the hyperbaric chamber.

And he was, once again, allowed visitors.

The door opened and Gus came in.

"Hey, Gus," he rasped.

"Hey, Shawn. You're looking better."

"I feel better." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. The breath made the skin on his chest stretch and his wound throbbed, but he ignored it. "Still not good though. What's my temp?"

Gus glanced at the monitor. "100," he said. "That's pretty good."

"Yeah, I heard the nurse say it got up to 103." His throat was ragged and dry. He cleared it noisily. "Hey, can you hand me some water?"

Awkwardly, he pulled the hand free of the IV needle out from under the blanket and reached across himself to grab the proffered water. Gus pressed the button on the remote to raise the bed just enough so that Shawn could drink.

He took a sip and the water felt so soothing and so delicious that he couldn't stop drinking. It slid down his throat and the feeling was almost magical—after several large gulps, Gus snatched the cup away. Shawn whimpered slightly at the loss.

"Don't overdo it, Shawn," Gus scolded, placing the cup back on the table. "You'll choke."

He sat down in the chair next to the bed, resting his forearms on his thighs, and watching his best friend as he began to doze.

Shawn had almost died today. Well, technically, he had died, and the doctors brought him back. And even though the cooling blanket was lowering the fever, it was by no means curing his infection. His brain was no longer in danger of boiling, but at any time, his body could decide again that it had taken too much abuse and shut down.

How many times could they bring him back?

"Shawn?" he asked, his voice small as he let the reality of the situation sink in.

Shawn blinked once or twice and sluggishly turned his head. "Yeah?"

"I just wanted to say you're the best friend I could ever—"

"Whoa, dude. Let's just not even go there."

"But— I just want you to know—"

"Gus, I know. Believe me, I know everything you're going to tell me, so just don't. No matter what happens… we're never gonna say goodbye. Got it?"

Gus's nose and eyes began to sting and he quickly lowered his head. He nodded quickly, taking in a sharp breath as tears began to drip down onto his hands. "Okay."

"Gus. Hey," Shawn murmured, reaching out a hand. "You're going to be okay."

It was such an absurd thing to say, when he was the one lying in the hospital, post-surgery, infected and dying. It was just as bad as saying goodbye.

"Shut up, Shawn. Don't say that to me," he remarked sullenly. Shawn smiled at him, just slightly, and it was so refreshing to see—so different from the atmosphere of utter gloom he'd been wallowing in for the past few days—that he couldn't help but return the gesture.

He stood up—his visiting time was over—and he crossed to the door. Stopping in the doorway, he turned around to just look at Shawn.

He still had hope that his friend would pull through. But he would never forgive himself if something happened and he hadn't gotten to say goodbye.

So, as Shawn squirmed uncomfortably under his stare, too tired to think of some witty deflection, Gus said it in his head: This could be the last time I ever see you, so just in case… Goodbye, Shawn. You are my best friend and I love you.

Before the sick man's brain could finally form something to say, he turned and left the room, feeling as though his worry would drown him.

Albuquerque, New Mexico, 2003

This was ridiculous.

Not only was Shawn was wearing a stupid hospital gown, but he was also running on a treadmill, attached to a bunch of wires. And he was being monitored.

It was just so stupid. He wasn't sick. He really didn't need to be here, acting like a giant idiot, so that nothing would happen and the doctor would tell him nothing was wrong.

There is no weird feeling in my chest. It is not hard to breathe. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me, there's nothing wrong with me.

Pain leaked into his head, throbbing under his ears, as his heart pounded in his chest. His vision turned dark and fuzzy. He could feel his limbs tingling fiercely, turning to jelly.

The next thing he knew he was sprawled out face-down on the floor, eyes closed, savoring the coolness of the tile against his flushed skin. He was unsure of how he got there, but he thought it might have had something to do with whoever was patting his cheek. The hand was small and cold. In the next instant he was being turned over onto his back.

"Shawn, you okay? Shawn, can you open your eyes for me?"

But they were so heavy.

He opened his eyes to slits and the face of Doctor James was hovering over him.

"Can you sit up?"

Whoa, whoa. Sitting up? He'd just barely managed to open his eyes, for God's sake. He squeezed his abs and lifted himself a few inches off the floor. The doctor's arm slipped behind his back and pulled him up the rest of the way. She dragged him a few feet over to lean against the wall.

"You're strong," he murmured, his eyes sliding closed again.

"Hey, hey, no. Stay with me, Shawn. You need some water?"

He nodded, looking blearily around the room. The treadmill was still running, making a mechanical whirring noise that he could barely hear over the rush of blood and the thumping of his heart in his ears. The wires he'd been attached to now hung limply in the air and the monitors were making sounds of warning and desperation. The nurse that had been present during his test was hurrying off to get him some water.

As he began to regain the feeling in his body, he began to hurt. His face, his shoulder, his arm, ribs, leg hurt from where he had come tumbling down. The memory of the past few minutes was hazy, but being who he was, he at least remembered it. It was all coming back to him, anyway.

There is nothing wrong with me.

Somehow it was harder to convince himself this time.

Juliet had to lock herself in a records room at the station when Lassiter got the phone call because she could feel herself breaking and she knew she couldn't hold it in.

Once she was alone, it was completely hopeless. She slid down the wall and sat with her knees in front of her face, her hand pressed over her mouth to stifle the sound of her sobs.

How the hell did this happen? Last week there was nothing wrong with him. There was no hospital, no heart condition. There was only harmless flirting. There was her friend, solving cases, brightening the police station with his smiles and his wit and his jokes. How could he be dying? Why did his heart stop? When did everything go wrong?

Was it sudden? Did the chase in the alley cause all of this? Or was it behind the scenes? Maybe it was a gradual deterioration of the valve, gone unnoticed until the damage was so severe that Shawn couldn't breathe.

She wanted to shoot something—but she had no idea what.

His heart had stopped.

They had told him just about as soon as he woke up, but it took this long to let the information really sink in.

It was the morning after, and he'd gotten fretful sleep still wrapped in the cooling blanket. The hyperbaric oxygen treatment was supposed to happen in just about an hour or two.

His heart had fucking stopped. He had been dead. If the doctors hadn't been able to revive him, he would be gone forever.

He made a small, frustrated noise and raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. The other one was hooked to an IV that was pumping him full of even stronger antibiotics than he'd been on before. They were trying to kill the infection and it was working very gradually—at least, he seemed to be out of danger for now. And every time they took off the bandages to clean his horrible, seeping wound, it looked a little bit less putrid.

Damn, but it still smelled.

He chuckled at this, but it sounded a little too high-pitched and hysterical, and it triggered tears. He pinched the bridge of his nose as his face contorted and his breath hitched loudly. The jerking of his body as he cried sent shocks of sharp pain through him.

It didn't matter that he was feeling better, that there was some hope because of his pending treatment.

Death was what finally broke him.

And scene. :)

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