Okay, so Shutter Island is one of the most fantastic things I have ever seen/read. It's brilliant and it's beautiful, and just wow. So I've been writing it for a few days, and this is one of two fics that will be posted. MAJOR SPOILERS, and then character death, so be warned.

Disclaimer: I do not own Shutter Island. It belongs to Dennis Lehan, the genius.

"Remember us, for we too have loved, laughed, and lived." -Aschecliff Hospital Cemetery

***

Lestor Sheehan stands above the freshly dug earth, wondering why his eyes are full of tears.

He's in a cemetery on the outskirts of Boston. Five gravestones stand at his feet, four older, more worn, one new and clear cut.

The one on the far left reads like this:

Dolores Chanal Laeddis

1920-1951

Beloved Mother and Wife

It's a lie. Well, the beloved part. Andrew loved her, of course, with all his heart (his traitorous, wounded, scarred heart, and it killed him, his love. It choked him and beat him and drove him to madness.) But the children, the children were frightened of her, in the end. They knew, as children do, that she was dangerous.

The three graves in between—Edward, Daniel, and Rachel (the truly beloved) Laeddis—are small, like the bodies that lie beneath them.

Sheehan touches the smooth headstones, and feels like he's just violated something sacred.

He imagines Andrew (his friend, even after the lobotomy, when he wouldn't look anyone in the eye or speak or do much of anything) standing there, and for a moment, the image is overwhelming: Andrew, dressed in his best suit, head bowed, hat hiding his piercing eyes, murmuring to the dead and the loved as the wind shuddered around him.

He would be crying, Lestor thinks, crying for Rachel. (Because Sheehan knows, he knows, that Andrew loved Rachel the most, she was his everything, and then she died and the world fell apart.)

The headstone on the right, in its hard-won location (they hadn't wanted him here, Dolores's parents. They blamed him, wanted him buried on Shutter Island, forgotten, away from his precious family. Sheehan refused to deal with their bullshit, and laid Andrew to rest in Boston anyway), bore two lines.

Andrew Laeddis

1920-1956

With its dwindling funds the hospital had not been able to afford three full lines. This in itself was rather offensive to Sheehan—Andrew had been a good man, even after his brain had been cut, and he deserved better. He deserved more.

But he only had Sheehan and Cawley, now, and that would have to be enough.

Sheehan cradles the tools in his hands. He needs to put something down, on the stone, something that will remain forever, will be a bit of Andrew forever.

A sudden idea springs into his head, and he imagines Andrew standing beside him, brow quirked, a bemused look on his face. (It's ironic that when Sheehan thinks of Andrew, he thinks of the man who thought of himself as Teddy, who swore and laughed and trusted Chuck, not Sheehan.)

He grabs the tools, a chisel and a hammer, and, painstakingly, his fingers shaking, carves into the smooth headstone.

When he is done, he smiles and cries at the same time. He almost feels Andrew's heavy hand on his shoulders, a warm squeeze.

The completed headstone reads like this, and the last line is sloppy, hand-carved, but meaningful:

Andrew Laeddis

1920-1956

The Good Sailor

A sense of satisfaction—or peace, or finality—settles over the doctor. His work is done.

He walks from the graveyard, and he thinks that maybe it's time to hand in his resignation. He casts one last glance back at the headstone, and he smiles, just slightly.

He imagines Andrew, reading his own stone. His blue eyes sparkle, appreciating the irony, (the truth) in the statement that will mark him forever more.

Lestor Sheehan walks away, and behind him, he hears Andrew laughing.

Please review!!! And I 3 Sheehan....