A/N: Thanks to all of my awesome reviewers; you guys are incredible! As requested here's the second part, and conclusion of Intuition. For the record, I'm terrible at writing action but I tried my best. Please excuse any mistakes. Happy Holidays to everyone and enjoy!
The elevator doors slide open and Shawn feels as though he has entered a dream. The ringing of the fire alarms and the flashing lights seem far away; the only thing he hears is the sound of his own breath, his own heart, the sound of his life that he knows might be slipping away. He tries to listen for any sign of the killer he knows is there, but the sounds drown out everything, the overwhelming loudness meshing into one long, droning noise that seems almost like silence.
He moves carefully down the hallway, his eyes wide. There have to be clues as to where the bastard is: a smudge of blood on the wall or on the carpet, or the scent of blood in the air; maybe even a quick movement where there should be only stillness. Anything to give him an edge, because Shawn is alone. It is him and the killer and the feeling, the damn feeling, and Shawn has never, never been so terrified in his entire life.
Shawn knows that he doesn't have the element of surprise, but he is still loathe to make a sound or say a word or goad the killer into revealing himself. It goes against the years of training that his father has drilled into him. He gets halfway down the hallway and pauses. This has to go faster, before Lassi can climb the seven flights of stairs that separate them, even though the tide of panicked civilians fleeing the building will slow him down.
"Hey!" He shouts over the blaring sirens. "Here I am! Come and get me!"
Everything is still, as every hair on his body stands on end, trying to jump right off his skin and escape whatever fate awaits him.
The whisper of cloth, the click of the door, the scent of blood that makes bile rise in the back of Shawn's throat, the shadow that suddenly looms on the wall in front of him; Shawn spins as the knife cuts into his left arm, and grabs the murderer's wrists, forcing the knife back. The man, who is covered in blood, who stinks of it, spits at him and gives a crazy grin to match his crazy eyes. The spit flies into Shawn's eye and stings, like it's acid instead of spit, and Shawn's hand goes automatically towards his face to wipe the liquid away.
The murderer shoves Shawn backwards and the knife continues its downward arch now that Shawn has lost his grip on man's wrist. The knife bites into his shoulder and he yells in pain as he goes down, hands coming up to defend himself. He kicks for the man's kneecap, striking with as much force as he can muster. The man goes down and Shawn surges to his feet, grabbing for the knife, his hands clawing at the man's fingers, trying to loosen his hold. The killer's fist comes up into Shawn's stomach and Shawn falls on top of him, all the breath in his lungs rushing out.
Black spots dance in front of Shawn's eyes but he grapples for the knife, knowing more than ever that if he doesn't get the weapon he's dead. His short fingernails dig into the man's flesh and he can feel slippery blood on his fingers. The killer's other hand comes up, striking him hard in the side of his head and Shawn's left arm goes across the man's throat, choking him, trying to immobilize him. He manages to knock the weapon loose, sending it clattering across the floor. The killer's teeth dig into Shawn's arm and Shawn screams, moving his arm.
The killer throws Shawn part of the way off of him, fingers scrambling for the knife. Shawn slams the murderer back to the ground, reaching for the knife at the same time. The man's fingers reach it first and he moves so fast, so fast, pushing Shawn away.
There is blood everywhere, it seems to Shawn. He's bleeding in both arms, in the shoulder, the side of his head, and he hurts, he hurts, he hurts.
The bad feeling overcomes him. He's going to die. He sees the knife glimmer in the light, as clichéd as it is. Is his life going to flash before his eyes too, right before he dies?
Faintly, as if it's from a million miles away, he hears someone, a familiar, familiar, lovely voice scream his name.
The knife enters the right side of his upper chest and Shawn knows that it punctures a lung. He knows because it hurts more than anything has ever hurt in his entire life and because he can't breathe, he can't make his lungs inflate; he can't, can't, can't breathe. God it hurts. He knows the same way that he knows he's going to die.
He sees the killer's crazy eyes as the gun goes off, sees him slam against the floor as the bullet enters his chest, sees the last gleam in the man's eyes. But it hurts too much for him to contemplate and the knife is sticking out of his chest and Shawn knows, he knows that he's going to die.
He's on his side and a hand gently, oh-so gently rolls him onto his back, supporting his weight and making sure not to jar him. Shawn stares up into warm brown eyes that are full of anger and regret and fear and Shawn knows that it's all because of him. "La—," he starts, knowing that he shouldn't, but Lassi shakes his head.
"For once in your life, Shawn, please, please don't talk." There's no malicious intent in his words, just fear as plain as blood on the wall. Footsteps pound up the stairs and someone finally shuts off the fire alarms, so Shawn can finally hear himself think again. A paramedic, an angel in blue, shows up next to Shawn.
Everything is starting to go dark. It hurts so much, like liquid fire is coursing through him with every breath he tries to take. They remove the knife and Shawn arches, screaming while the paramedics and Lassi hold him down. It's like he's falling, everything getting darker and darker as he spins wildly around, a child on a crazed merry-go-round.
Lassiter's hands caress his face as the darkness closes in and Shawn forgets the detective's request. "Love you." He chokes out, the words bringing forth blood from his lips. Blood as red as his heart.
"Shawn, don't you dare…!" He hears faintly, but it all seems so far away.
The bad feeling is almost gone. There's just a tiny sliver of it left, carrying him further into the darkness.
So this is what it is like to die. It doesn't hurt, not really, not anymore. What hurts more is feeling Lassi's fingers tighten on his shirt. What hurts more is the quiet whisper, and Shawn doesn't even know if it's real or imagined. But he swears, he swears, that the words "I love you too" drift quietly through the air around them.
Shawn wishes that he could have said goodbye to everyone, put his affairs in order; told everyone that he loved them. But they know how he feels, just like he knew that the bad feeling wasn't all in his head, and that will have to do.
It all comes down to knowing, is Shawn's last coherent thought before he tumbles into darkness. It all comes down to that little spark of intuition that can save peoples lives, if someone is willing to make the sacrifice.
Finally, finally, the bad feeling is gone.
-cowers- Please don't kill me! I had to do it. Know that I am, at the moment, considering a sequal.
Remember, reviews are love.