Right. This story won't leave me alone! It's been driving me crazy, and Chibi!Shawn has been jabbering away in my eyes. Ears! Jabbering away in my ears! Gosh darn it, now I can't even type right!

Chibi!Shawn- Hee hee...

Don't make carry out my cross-over idea and shoot you! Right between the eyes, remember?!

Chibi!Shawn- Shutting up now...

That's what I thought. Anyways, I thought this through a lot. Hopefully, I'll be able to go past three chapters on this.

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters in this. Just the plot. MY PLOT! MY PLOT! MY PLOT!


Detective Carlton Lassiter was suffering. Absolute anguish as he was confined within the walls of his home. How the hell was he supposed to survive the next four days? No, scratch that- What the hell was he supposed to do? He still couldn't believe that Chief Vicks told him to not come into work. He could still hear her voice and the tired look on her face as she told both he and his assistant, Juliet O'Hara, the same thing that morning.

"You two are getting too worked up on this case. I want him found as much as you, but we have absolutely no leads. This case is wearing you two away, and I can't have that. You've been working hard for three straight months. You need rest. I don't want you to come into work for the next four days. If I need you, I'll call. You're dismissed."

Lassiter sighed, burying his face in his hands. A little voice that resided at the back of his mind said that she was right. The corner of his eye twitched as the little voice (who had decided to pop up almost immediately after the case began, and he dubbed it Voice-In-The-Back-Of-His-Head) continued: You're a work-a-holic, and this case has been eating you from the inside out for three months. Why? Because Jules misses him. The Chief misses him. Hell, even you miss him, and that's saying something, Lassie.

He uncovered his eyes, but kept his hands on his face as the little voice finished. He lifted his head slightly to look at the cork board he had put on his wall when he became Head Detective of the Santa Barbra Police Department. He could almost remember a time when there were mug-shots of various suspects of various the cases he had been assigned to. But now, instead of men who looked like they would rather punch you in the face then say "Hello", there was but a single picture framed by notes he had pinned with any information he had found, the facts scrawled in Lassiter's thin handwriting. He didn't have to even look at the notes anymore to know what they said. He had ended up memorizing them after looking at them every day.

Missing Person. Last seen leaving father's house March 3rd at 19:01 hours.

Last seen wearing brown leather jacket, slightly battered, green collared shirt, denim jeans.

Left on motorcycle w/helmet. Motorcycle found five miles away from father's house, helmet not found.

Signs of small scuffle around discovery sight.

All known rivals/enemies interrogated. All had solid alibis, therefore all dropped.

No suspects.

Lassiter sighed, looking at the picture of the missing man. The hazel eyes, the cocky smirk...he could almost imagine his voice: "You still haven't found me? Jeez, Lassie. What's keeping you?"

"Shut up, Spencer!" Carlton snapped, breaking the silence in his house. He immediately regretted the instinctive response to the imaginary voice. He sighed as he realized that Voice-In-The-Back-Of-His-Head was right.

He missed the voice of that damned "psychic", Shawn Spencer.

He dazed through the rest of the day, not certain of what he should do. It wasn't very often he had time to himself, even less often when he was forced to have time to himself. He'd cleaned his house spotless (he had been neglecting it for some time) and went shopping; he'd mowed the lawn and watered his shrubs...what else was there honestly to do?

He plopped back down on his sofa and looked around his house again, trying to avoid looking at the cork board posted on his wall. He leaned back and rested his head on the top of the sofa after finding nothing else to do and glued his eyes to the ceiling. After a few moments, his eyes fluttered close, and he found himself slipping off into sleep.

~*~

Carlton's eyes snapped open as his house phone started ringing. His mind felt fuzzy and he stood up and rubbed his eyes. He couldn't exactly recall what he'd been dreaming about, but the emotions he had felt were still buzzing around in his head: pained confusion, extreme skeptism, and then utter terror. What kind of dream could make him feel like that after he had woken up? He pondered the question briefly as he walked over to his kitchen and answered the phone.

"Hello?" he asked, rubbing his head in a vain attempt to stop the after-math dream feelings.

"Hello, Carlton," he recognized the tired voice of Henry Spencer. His chest tightened as a feeling of failure thudded through him. He knew why the retired police officer had called. It had been the same call since the Chief classified the case as "Missing Person".

"Hello, Henry. How are you?" Carlton tried to ask casually, but his voice end up sounding how he felt: tired. There was a small rush of static as Henry sighed.

"I'm still alive, if that's anything," he gave a dry laugh. There was a pause as Carlton waited for the question. The question that had first been in a grumbling and irritated tone, then had quickly crumbled into worry, and then desperation. But the last few weeks it had been a hollow sounding question, like it was asked purely out of habit.

"Is there any news?" There is was, and once again, Carlton's chest tightened as the feeling of failure shot through him. He shook his head, not caring if Henry couldn't see him.

"No sir. Still nothing." There was an awkward silence over the phone as Carlton waited for a response from the other man. There was another small rush of static and Henry Spencer cleared his throat.

"Right...Thanks..."

There was a click, and the other man hung up. Carlton sighed and put his phone back on his receiver. He blearily looked at the clock and realized that it was past the normal time that he went to bed. No wonder he was so tired. He was ready for a good, long nine hours of sleep...

And yes, the title has a purpose for being what it is. That will be explained later.