He managed to make good time through the building, those dancing lessons from long ago serving him an unexpected but welcome advantage as he dodged and darted around cops, at least half of which tried to stop him.

He managed to evade them every last one of them without having to stop moving forward.

Until he heard her voice.

He stopped cold in the hallway, deliberately oblivious to the filthy floor and gouged and scarred walls. It smelled of piss and puke and had all the charm of a whore house in the ghetto. Plainly put, the place was a dump and, though he would be able to remember that later—unable to remember it really—he couldn't think of it right now.

Not when it was his fault she was here. Had been here—alone, he cursed, completely fucking alone—with a rapist/serial killer intent on adding her to his collection of pretty little girls.

He cursed again and then forced his leaden legs to move him forward to the door of the apartment.

He just prayed they'd found her in time.

Muscles tensing to the point where he'd probably have a cramp later he stepped through, his eyes doing an automatic and cursory sweep of the room. Habit had his brain starting a more detailed analysis in the background, but most of his attention was focused on her.

She stood by a filthy window that only let in weak, filtered sunlight, talking to her partner, her voice low and professional as she gave him a report.

In his chest his heart gave a double jerk, once for love, lust or—more likely—both, the same feeling he always got when he looked at/listened to/smelled/thought of her, and once for shame and fear, a reflection of what she was feeling right now. The latter was multiplied exponentially by the former.

He shouldn't be thinking that, feeling that, right now. After what she'd been through that should be the last damn thought in his head.

But, fuck he wanted her.

In his arms and in his bed.

Not because he was sick like the bastard that had held her here—tied her to that pathetic excuse of a mattress, his brain helpfully noted as his traitorous eyes flicked to that especially filthy corner of the room, sparking a wave of revulsion that he shied away from instinctively. He wanted her, needed her right now and not because he found all of—or any of—this a turn on.

He didn't want to make her remember, to think of what she'd survived here. He wanted to make her forget. Replace the terror and shame and helplessness with security and love and strength.

He knew she could eventually, though he never would. The images—both real and imagined—were stuck in his head. Permanent fucking ink on his psyche.

Thanks, Dad. Thanks for the memories.

He pushed the thought aside, shoved it violently into the box in his head reserved for things like that, and tried to focus on what could be done now.

And his eyes went back to her.

The steadiness with which she delivered her report was belied by her posture, the way she shielded herself with her arms crossed over her chest, her nervous and ever busy fingers that picked and stroked and danced over the blanket the EMT's had given her, the defensive hunch of her shoulders.

She kept her head up, but her eyes were on Lassie's shoulder, not his face, certainly not his eyes.

Lassiter, for once, wasn't his usual abrasive asshole self.

His voice was pitched as low as hers and, though Shawn would never have imagined that he was capable of it, vaguely compassionate. He lifted a hand and rested it on her shoulder and she cringed, then flushed because it was her partner, not her tormentor that was touching her.

Shawn wanted to go over there and do something, anything, to make that look on her face go away, banish those tears from her eyes, but he couldn't. He felt dirty just thinking it because he was the one that had put those shadows there. Not literally, he knew, but he'd played a part in it.

His damn ego and reckless shithead attitude had redirected the focus of their suspect and turned a fucking spotlight on Juliet.

And that was because Shawn had been stupid enough to think that he was smarter than a psychotic maniac who'd already killed seventeen victims and eluded the police for almost six months.

And maybe he was smarter. But he wasn't crazier. And that gave his opponent a leg up in a mind game like this. Your opponent couldn't anticipate your next move if you didn't even know what the hell it was until you were doing it.

Because he couldn't bear to look at her, to see what he'd had a hand in doing to the woman he supposedly loved—had confessed to the same to his dad with very little alcohol in his system—he turned away.

And spotted his partner in crime.

Two shots to the head made precise little holes in the front of his skull. The still dripping décor on the wall behind him indicated that the exit hadn't been quite so neat.

Something Shawn couldn't have explained drew him over. He stared down at the lump of meat that had, until recently, served as the shell for a twisted mind and soul.

His face blank, his eyes critical, he lowered himself into a crouch, tilting his head as he examined the remains.

Once upon a time this had been a baby, an infant, as innocent as they came. Someone had loved him, Shawn knew, two parents and four siblings, all of whom had been shocked and bewildered by what their little Johnny had done.

He hadn't been beaten or abused. His family had been comfortably upper middle class. He'd had good grades and a few friends back in his adolescence. No criminal record to speak of, not even a parking ticket or youthful indiscretion tucked away in a juvie file.

But something had changed.

Shawn's brow furrowed, his head tilted, as he considered the conundrum.

What had skewed and distorted that, by all appearances, happy and fortunate in life young man into this? A monster, barely human, maybe not even that anymore, who preyed on pretty, innocent women.

Inside, deep down in his generous heart, he mourned for that young man, as much a victim as any of the girls who'd fallen to the creature before him.

But for that creature . . . he felt no regret. No remorse over the violent way he'd met his end.

Well, he thought as he stood. That wasn't entirely true.

He regretted that it had been swift and relatively painless. Probably hadn't even known what hit him. The barrel of Lassiter's gun in his face and then nothing.

After the hours of torture, abuse, and indignity he'd inflicted on his victims it wasn't fair that he'd had such an easy death.

Pain in his hand brought Shawn out of the dark, bubbling thoughts of what he'd have preferred for an end to this case, and he looked down to see his left hand so tightly fisted that there were marks in his palm from his fingernails.

He stared at it, gently waving his fingers and feeling the accompanying sting as it jarred the wounds, as though he had never seen a hand before and wasn't sure why it was bothering him now.

He dropped it suddenly when he sensed company approaching—not the CSU techs, they were background noise, there but not really worth acknowledging as they crawled over the scene like ants, plucking up the bits of evidence and carting them back to their nest to be picked over again in more detail.

It was Lassiter and he was still having an out of body experience it seemed.

“Spencer,” he said, his voice unnervingly gentle. “We got him. Go home. We can handle this from here.”

He spun, violently, his temper riding the wave of bile that surged up in his esophagus. He swallowed the bile, but the fury kept coming, propelled like a rocket into his brain and lodging there with a comforting fizz behind his eyes.

“Dammit, Lassiter, you are not shutting me out on this one. I can help you and you know it. This isn't done yet.”

“Shawn,” Lassiter tried, putting a hand on his arm—not the expected rough grip that preceded being dragged out and dropped on his ass just beyond the crime scene tape either. It was . . . dammit, comforting and placating and, shit, he did not need this right now. Not from the lead detective on the case and the partner of the woman Shawn professed to love and yet had all but wrapped up in a bow and handed to a fucking serial killer.

He turned away, his anger going icy and cold as it came back on himself, this time riding a wave of guilt and disgust for his unwitting contribution to this crime spree.

“I need to do this,” he said quietly, eyes closed against the shame of being reduced to this pitiful begging. He hated it, but his pride was not the issue here. His sanity was the chunk of him in danger.

He needed to help on this, solve this, close it up.

If he didn't he'd never have peace.

The memories would never go completely away no matter what, but he could beat them back if he had memories of success for a bat. He needed closure here or he'd have to find it elsewhere and he couldn't even begin to imagine where he might find it.

Thoughts of the one time he'd tried drugs—out of curiosity more than anything—swam through his head and he shook them off. He didn't want to seek that kind of oblivion. It was false and the memories only hurt more when it cleared . . . but desperation made a person do things they didn't like.

He didn't want to be that desperate.

The silence, absolute silence, of the room penetrated his thoughts and his eyes flew open to look around.

They were alone.

Lassiter had dismissed the Ant Army.

It was just them and the cooling corpse of a killer.

“Shawn,” Lassiter said, his voice gentle still.

The use of his first name alone made the younger man blink and pay attention.

“I wasn't going to kick you off the case.” He hesitated, his eyes darting away as he ran a hand through his hair, fidgeting with the discomfort of his next words. “I'd like your help in fact. But we don't need you to bag evidence and dust for prints. Right now there's somewhere you need to be more.”

Confused, Shawn stared at Lassiter.

“Where . . .”

He trailed off when movement at the door caught his attention.

It was Juliet, her expression heartbreakingly vulnerable behind the thin veneer of stoicism and indifference she'd tried to paint over it.

He couldn't do it, couldn't face her right now.

“Shawn?” she said softly.

His eyes closed and his face collapsed in on itself, his nose wrinkling, as he tried to wrestle control back.

His personal space was invaded and his eyes flew open but it was just Lassiter.

“Take her to the hospital and then take her home, Spencer,” he ordered in a near whisper so she couldn't hear his words. “She's on the verge of breaking down completely and she'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable doing so with you than me.”

“Lassie, I-”

“We both have jobs to do right now. I need to bag a body and gather evidence. You need to go make sure my partner can come back and do her job. Tomorrow you can come in and tell me what the spirits have to say about Dunslow here.”

Shawn swallowed, wanting to take him up on his offer, wanting it so badly he had to consciously hold himself back from running to her and scaring the shit out of her again by tackling her.

But, hell, how was he supposed to touch her again? It was his fault she had finger shaped bruises on her arms and neck. His fault her lip was split and her eye blackened. A cut on her forehead had had a first aid patch applied but it would need a more thorough inspection and treatment. She favored her right ankle, though both, like her wrists, had the bruises and chafing caused by struggling against leather straps tied too tightly.

He didn't even know what else had been done because the rest was covered by a damn ambulance stock blanket for the shock and because what was left of the clothes she was wearing were not decent enough for a visit to the ER.

“Shawn,” she said again and it was the crack in her voice that decided it for him.

He was across the room and had her wrapped up carefully in his arms in a few scant heartbeats. She couldn't return the gesture since she was mummified in the blanket, but she managed to get her hands on fistfuls of his shirt and contented herself with that death grip. Nothing and no one was going to take him away from her until she was good and fucking ready to let him go.

That wouldn't be anytime soon.

They were both shaking, the two of them trembling like kittens in a snowstorm, as they stood there, both reveling in the feel of the other, the comfort of the familiar smells, and the safety their grasp on the other embodied.

“Jules, I am so sorry,” he breathed. “So sorry, I-”

She started to cry then, sobbing quietly into his shoulder and he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut.

She was going to kill him if she kept it up.

“I knew you'd come,” she managed after a few moments, sniffing wetly and trying to reign in her emotions. She'd managed to hold onto them thus far and dammit she wasn't ready to let go. Not here. Not now.

Bad enough she'd been found where and with whom she had been, she didn't not want to lose any more respect from her coworkers.

She wanted to be home, safe and sound, cocooned in Shawn's arms and hidden from the world, free to break down in privacy where she wouldn't have to face the witnesses to it at work the next day.

This was close, but not enough.

And yet she couldn't stop. The dam had been broken and there was no going back now.

Shawn, for his part, reacted the only way he knew how, though it was far from adequate in his opinion. Shushing her and rocking back and forth gently, he did his best to ride out the storm, internally cursing himself up one side and down the other for allowing this to happen. Any of it and all of it.

Over her head he met Lassiter's apologetic and more than a little embarrassed eyes and grimaced in agreement.

They really needed to let the forensics techs back in to finish processing the scene. The body needed to be moved—not out of respect for him, but because leaving it here was likely to garner it some posthumous abuse from the people who worked with his last victim. And Juliet need to go to the hospital and be checked over and treated more thoroughly.

She had no major injuries that they could see but they'd check again and with better equipment just to be sure. Shawn was not averse to a second opinion on her medical condition. He didn't want any lingering physical reminders of her ordeal to go with the psychological scars that she'd carry for the rest of her life.

But Shawn would be damned if he'd make her walk the gauntlet of people she knew that stood between her and the exit while she was sobbing her shattered heart out.

There was no emergency now. Everyone could wait two damn minutes for her to let out some of the pain and then gather the shreds of her composure.

The flash flood died down to a trickle and she sniffed and wiped at her face with the corner of the blanket.

“Sorry,” she whispered, pulling back a little, her eyes firmly cast down, her cheeks flushed from the emotion of her release as much as the embarrassment of it happening here and now.

Shawn slid his hands up to her upper arms and gave her a gentle shake.

“Hey,” he said, letting go to put a finger under her chin and tip it up until she was forced to meet his eyes. “You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing.”

She sniffed and nodded, but it didn't take his pseudo-psychic skills to see that she didn't believe him.

Yet. She would, he vowed, and pulled her in for another hug.

This was all his damn fault—well, his and Dunslow's. He never had been good at sharing and he wasn't about to start now with this and her.

Lassiter cleared his throat and Shawn reluctantly released his tight hold in her, toning it down to a single arm around the shoulders.

“Go get checked out, O'Hara,” he ordered, his voice mostly back to normal strident non-nonsense tones. “When they release you go home. I'll get your official statement tomorrow.”

She hesitated—out of duty, not desire—but he read her face easily.

“I'll call you if I need something,” he added, his voice softening briefly once more.

They both knew he wouldn't, but the verbal facade had been erected and now she could hide behind it without feeling guilty.

She nodded and let Shawn guide her to the door, shifting her grip on the blanket so she could sneak a hand down and tangle her fingers with his.

He gave her hand a quick squeeze, managed a bolstering smile of encouragement, and then, when she nodded, opened the door.

It was almost midnight. The day of horror and hell was finally coming to an end.

Shawn lay on his couch, stretched out the length of it, and covered in a blanket of Juliet with a topcoat of fleece because she was still a bit shocky and therefore perpetually cold.

One hand ran up and down the length of her back, gently, absently tracing her spine.

At the hospital she'd been cherry red with embarrassment, but quietly insistent that he stay with her throughout the examination. Her hand had gripped his the entire time, through the indignity of having her rags—formerly clothes—cut off so they could be properly processed by forensics, the mortifying examination of every last inch of her skin and the collection of more evidence, the quiet tears that had accompanied the recounting of what she could remember of what had been done to her so it could be treated.

Listening to it had sickened him, but he'd kept it together for her. He'd always have the memory of her shaky, barely audible voice telling of the torture she'd endured, the vivid full color mental snapshots of the bruises, cuts, burns, and other desecrations to her body, the feelings of impotent rage and heartbroken despair she'd radiated as she'd been forced to think time and time again about things she just wanted to forget.

He'd always remember those things and what they'd done to her, but he hadn't experienced them. He could imagine what she'd gone through—and would in excruciating detail in his dreams for the rest of his life, he knew—but he'd never truly know what it had been like.

And so he put himself aside, shoved his damn ego and fucking guilt into a deep dark hole in his head, and focused on doing whatever he could for her.

Staying with her, holding her hand, reminding her that it was over, she had survived, and it would never happen again . . . it still didn't feel like it was enough to him, but he could see that it had helped some.

When it was finally over he'd bundled her up in clothes that Gus, bless his unquestioning loyalty and willingness to act as gopher without a word of explanation, had fetched for her. He'd brought her home—his, not hers because hers was yet to be cleaned up after being trashed in her abduction and then processed by the CSU guys—and they'd curled up on the couch with a stack of comedies and chick flicks, a collective gallon of Ben and Jerry's, and a veritable feast of fast food.

Food had not been on her captor's agenda and the combination of starvation and a desire for innocent normalcy had ended with trips to almost every fast food place they'd passed on the way home, as well as a grocery store for the ice cream and some drinks—nothing alcoholic that would steal her control like the drugs in the little water she'd been given.

And then she'd had a hankering for moo goo gai pan and fortune cookies so they'd had Chinese delivered.

Six hours into the marathon, pizza and a bouquet of beautiful flowers had been delivered with a message that it was courtesy of her coworkers. Accompanying it was a card that had been filled with the scribbles of her fellow flatfeet—along with a sealed note from Lassiter that said that he could swing by and do her interview there if she didn't want to come in, she just needed to call and let him know.

She'd cried again after that, disbelief at the support and yet gratitude for the camaraderie bred in a job where trust in your coworkers meant the difference between coming home at night and a shiny medal for your spouse or parents.

Shawn had held her again, saying a prayer of thanks himself for the dedicated badges working this town that had found her in time.

Guilt demanded he not include himself in that group but that kind of thinking wasn't useful to Juliet so he packed it away with the rest and refocused his attention.

They hadn't finished the movies or touched the pizza.

Her second breakdown had led to her confession that she hadn't wasted her time between the sessions of pain and abuse. She'd thought of him, she said, reaffirming her assertion that she'd known he would lead the charge of the cavalry to her rescue—or at least act as their guide and point them in the right direction. Carlton would have never let him actually lead the charge.

Shame washed over him at the fact that he wouldn't have had to act as guide if he hadn't gotten her into a position of needing to be rescued in the first place.

She'd read his guilt that time and refused to let him sweep it under the rug again.

That had led to a lively discussion-bordering-on-argument that had, inexplicably, ended with Shawn's earlier wish being fulfilled.

Initially a primal clash of wills, it took only one gasp of pain from Juliet to have him retreating so fast he almost cracked his head on the coffee table when he fell off the couch.

He'd tried to apologize and nearly drowned in the shame, but she'd just come after him, disarming him with a kiss so sweet he was pretty sure that his internal organs had all turned to liquid and settled in a thick pool in his abdomen. It would explain why he'd had such a hard time breathing, not having lungs and all.

After that came irrefutable forgiveness, achingly tender passion, and some desperately needed healing for both of them.

Her injuries had forced them to be careful and take it slowly and that had damn near killed him with how right and perfect it had been.

After that she'd slept, boneless and exhausted, but not plagued by nightmares.

He hadn't.

He'd been spinning his wheels in the muck of confusion, trying to figure out how the hell he'd gotten so lucky.

He didn't deserve her, couldn't believe her when she said she didn't want to fight it anymore, and couldn't let her go now if his life depended on it.

She stirred and he abruptly refocused on the world outside of his head, his eyes on the messy tumble of her hair as she sighed contentedly.

Her head on his bare chest allowed him to feel the butterfly kisses of her eyes fluttering open. His own eyes drifted closed at the sensation.

How had he lived without her?

She lifted her head and must have been trying to decide if he was asleep, because she didn't say anything at first. Then there was a soft, “Shawn?” and his eyes popped open like they had been rigged with springs.

A smile curved her lips.

“Hey,” she murmured.

He couldn't help it, couldn't stop the urge to bring a hand up to her face. Brushing his knuckles gently along her cheekbone, just skimming the edge under the black eye and then sliding back to thread his fingers in her hair, he marveled at the perverse sense of humor fate had.

She leaned into the caress, her lids sliding down as she tilted her head to slip into the cradle of his palm.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“For what?” he asked, only half paying attention, distracted as he was by the feel of her hair trapping his fingers, as if it couldn't bear to let him go either.

She laid her head back down on his chest, her muscles taking on the consistency of warm butter as his heart thumped steadily, if quickly, under her ear.

“For everything,” she breathed on a sigh, her eyes closing as sleep washed over her again.

She mumbled a soft, “Love you,” then was gone, a willing submissive to blissful oblivion once more.

Shawn's hand froze mid-stroke of her hair. He blinked, once, twice.

Then yawned.

Blinking again he tried to shake off the sudden exhaustion flooding over him, trying to drag him down into sleep.

But the fight was futile and eventually he succumbed, his last conscious thought that every nightmare should end this way.

And if this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up.