Right, well this idea has been floating around in my head for quite a while, and I finally decided to write it, which, as I read it, might not have been such a great decision. xD

Anyway, if the writing style confuses you, don't let it. I was trying to go for a Watson-esque first-person deal from Gus's P.O.V., but that might not have worked out as well as I'd planned.

I don't own Psych, and I certainly don't own Sherlock Holmes or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Or any 19th century clothing. Or anything that could be mentioned in this story.

I recall it was sunny; so sunny, my old friend had drawn the blinds and was currently lounging in his favourite chair, staring at his computer screen with such intensity that I was reluctant to interrupt his ponderings. Before I was required to do so, however, he presented me with the question that he had apparently given much consideration.

"Gus...Do you think I should buy a small sect of land in Hawaii?"

I was rather taken aback by his random query.

"Shawn, why would you need a small sect of land in Hawaii?" I could not help but ask.

My confusion must have been evident in my tone, for my friend turned to look at me, brow furrowed.

"You seriously have to ask? Dude, what is one of Hawaii's main exports? Pineapple! We could be set up for life! Pineapple smoothies whenever we wanted! Not to mention it's a sect of land. A sect, Gus. That's one of the best words ever! Say it with me, Gus. Sect. Sect."

"Shawn, I will not say the word sect."

"Dude, you totally just said sect." A grin was twisting up the corners of his lips, to my growing irritation.

"Whatever, Shawn. Just tell me this; how are you going to pay for this small sect of land?" I couldn't repress the smirk the sidled onto my features. After all, it would seem I just outsmarted Santa Barbara's only Private Psychic Detective.

"Easy, Gus! With all the money we make from doing the SBPD's job, not to mention the huge amounts we have in our Indian 401K, I'll be able to cover it with no problem!" That irritating grin was still in place, a fact that irked me more than I care to say.

"Shawn, you do realize that we have about 10 bucks in that stupid Indian 401K, right? I don't think they even call it a 401K! Besides, the money from the cases has to go towards our bills. Not some stupid farm on some tiny little island in Hawaii."

"Aww, lighten up Buddy! Fine, I'll put off my plans for later; but don't think I'll forget! I'm determined to have pineapple smoothies for the rest of my life." Turning back to his computer, my friend closed the page - after bookmarking it, more than likely - and turned to me with a dramatic sigh, complete with a heave of his shoulders.

Having seen the antics of my friend before, I simply turned back to my desktop and contemplated the wording of Psych's next advert. It went on like this for several moments, Shawn attempting to capture my attention, and me steadfastly ignoring his increasingly dramatic ventures. For what seemed to be an eternity, the only sounds that filled the room were nasally whines from my friend, and the clacking of the keys on my keyboard as I desperately typed and deleted my attempts at clever advertisement.

Eventually, the cacophony of equally annoying sounds grated my nerves enough to make me turn to my friend and give him an exasperated look.

"What, Shawn?"

"Gus, I'm bored." The man in question whined, looking - and sounding- for the entire world like a spoiled five-year-old.

"Then do something about it." Was my simple reply. However, upon seeing my friend's obvious distress, I couldn't help but take pity on him. "Have you tried calling Abigail?"

Shawn scoffed. "Of course I haven't tried calling my maybe-girlfriend, Gus. What do you think?" His tone dripped sarcasm, before softening to something that seemed mildly saddened. "It went straight to voicemail. She's either busy or she hasn't decided if we're on or off."

"'On or off?'" I couldn't contain my snort of laughter. "What are you, a seventh grader?"

"Dude, I've been transported back to junior high!" He chuckled, shaking his head. "Seriously though, I think I might die of boredom if I don't do something."

"How about we go get some jerk chicken then?" I suggested. It probably wasn't my best idea; not only would we inevitably be taking my company car, but also I was certain it would be I footing the bill for our lunch.

"With pineapple smoothies?"

"You know that's right."

Another grin spread across my friend's face, this one much less obnoxious. "Well then let's go!"

Before we could even get so far as the door, a strange noise caught my ear. A noise that sounded suspiciously like "Hungry like the Wolf". As my friend pulled his phone from his pocket, I realized it was his ringtone. I shook my head ruefully as he answered the call.

"Lassie-face! I knew you wouldn't be able to resist me for long!" A cocky smirk had replaced his grin, and a teasing tone had entered his voice.

Whatever Lassie's reaction to this was, I was rather glad I was unable to hear it.

"A package? For me? Why Lassie, you shouldn't have!" A pause, then, "We'll be there right away. Don't you worry your pretty little oddly-shaped head, Lassie!" Not giving Lassiter the chance to reply, my friend quickly hung up and turned to me.

"Well Gus, looks like we have to make a quick detour before we hit jerk-chicken-and-pineapple-smoothie heaven. Looks like we've got a package from a secret admirer that's just waiting for us down at the SBPD headquarters."

To say I was apprehensive would be a horrible understatement.

"Shawn, how do you know it's a 'secret admirer'? For all we know, it could be some psycho like Yang! Or Yin! Or both of them! Or it could be a bomb, just waiting to blow us to bits! I just got this shirt dry-cleaned - there's no way it's gonna be blown up!"

"Dude, relax.Don't you think Lassie already sniffed it out? Nah, it's probably some letter admiring my amazing skills and asking what a pharmaceutical rep does."

For some reason, this didn't comfort me in the slightest. However, there was a package waiting on us, and it was obvious that Shawn wished to go see what was in the aforementioned mysterious parcel. What harm could it do for us to just pop in, open the package, look inside, and then go to lunch?

"Okay, fine. But after we see what's inside, we're leaving. No ifs, ands, or buts."

"Even if they're really good buts? Like, stop-and-stare-oh-my-gosh-incredible buts?"

"Wrong kind of buts, Shawn."

"But if we see the right kind of buts, can we stop for a bit?"

"Don't you have a girlfriend?"

"She hasn't told me if we're on or off, so I'm assuming we're off until she says we're on."

I shook my head. Clearly, it was useless trying to get through to my lifelong friend.

Deciding it was pointless to delay any longer, I grabbed the keys to the affectionately named 'Blueberry', and we were soon on our way.

The ride to the SBPD was relatively short, mainly because I had purposefully neglected my normal routine of habitually checking the speedometer. Shawn was rather quiet during the ride, though that was probably because he was too preoccupied with his game of keep-scanning-the-radio-stations-to-annoy-the-man-who-lets-you-ride-in-his-company-car-and-doesn't-charge-you-for-the-gas.

Upon entering the station, the first thing I noticed was Lassie, Juliet, and the Chief huddled in the conference room, a rather large box situated in the middle of the large oak table that separated them. Lassiter was making agitated motions, while Juliet appeared to be attempting to calm him. Chief Vick seemed thoroughly unperturbed by the detective's outburst, more than likely used to such events.

Unfortunately, I was so caught up with my 'observations', I failed to notice McNabb's presence, which resulted in a very un-manly noise ripping from my throat when his large hand clamped down on my shoulder. The other meaty paw was presumably resting on Shawn's shoulder, though he had undoubtedly known Buzz was behind us. More than likely, he had already figured out what was going on in the conference room. To be honest, it wouldn't surprise me if Shawn had already determined what was going on with nigh everyone in the bullpen as well. Even though I've known him since we were both in diapers, I couldn't help but marvel at the man-child's observational skills. Granted, his father had practically pounded the knowledge of how to observe so thoroughly into him, but some amount of Shawn's incredible talent had to be natural ability.

Buzz steered us towards the conference room without as much as a kind greeting. This was what first alerted me to the tension that had permeated every part of the department. Clearly, they were afraid that it would be another Yin/Yang situation, something no one was eager to repeat. Still, I couldn't help but feel like they were overreacting just a bit; after all, Yin was dead, and Yang was still locked in the asylum, not to mention the fact that there would've been a Yin-Yang symbol on top of the package if it were from the psychopathic woman.

Try as I might, I couldn't blame them for their over-reaction. The Yin/Yang case was probably the biggest thing the SBPD had ever encountered. It had nearly taken Shawn's life, not to mention the life of one Juliet O'Hara. After an event so deadly, the department was bound to be tense. Now, with the arrival of this mysterious package for Shawn and me, things were bound to be a lot worse.

The doors to the conference room were flung open as we reached them, and the Chief quickly ushered us in. Lassiter was still fuming in the corner, and Juliet was in the opposite corner, probably trying to stay as far away from the package as possible. I noticed a moment too late that Buzz had left us, disappearing to who-knows-where while we opened the box.

My friend rubbed his hands together and grinned at the occupants of the room.
"Let's get crackin' then, shall we?"

"Mr. Spencer," Chief Vick intercepted, "we're not sure what exactly is in the box you're so eager to open. We havedetermined that it's not a bomb or anything of that sort, but we're not sure what could be released when you open that lid. It could release some toxin into the air, or it could contain some venomous creature, or -"

"Well, I guess we'll just have to see, won't we!" Shawn gleefully interrupted, his grin still in place. "C'mon Gus, it's addressed to you too."

I have no qualms in admitting my reluctance to open the package alongside him. As a pharmaceutical rep, I am rather well acquainted with the various poisons that could be released into the air and how quickly - and painfully - they could kill their victims. However, Shawn was my best friend, and therefore I was obligated to follow him as he strode across the room to the table and placed his hands on the large package.

"Ready buddy?" He queried after I had positioned my hands in a similar fashion to his.

"Nope. Let's do this." I was hoping I wouldn't die after we opened the mysterious box; those were horrible last words.

I was relieved when, upon opening the box and examining the contents, all we found were numerous pairs of neatly folded old clothing, and a note addressed to Shawn and me.

"Will you do the honour, buddy?" Shawn asked, offering the note to me.

Nodding, I took the note from his hands and unfolded it, clearing my throat before reading the following:

"Dear Mr. Spencer and Mr. Guster,

It has come to my attention that your psychic detective agency, Psych, is doing rather well as of late. I must offer you my congratulations, gentleman; that is quite the achievement. However, I have not gone through the trouble of sending you this merely to exchange pleasantries. I have written to you because I wish to play a game with you, Mr. Spencer. I also wish to include Mr. Guster, Detective Lassiter, and the lovely Detective O'Hara in our little game. You will undoubtedly notice the surplus of 19th century clothing that I have sent with this note. You see, Mr. Spencer, this game of ours will be quite thrilling.

I am sure you are aware of the Sherlock Holmes series, penned by the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, are you not? I cannot help but draw similarities between some of Doyle's characters and some of you. Therefore, I have devised a small plan to see just how alike you are. This game of mine is quite the ingenious one, Mr. Spencer, as I'm sure you'll come to understand. Now, pay close attention to what I say.

Mr. Spencer, you are to assume the role of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Mr. Guster, you are to assume the role of Mr. Sherlock Holmes' faithful companion, Doctor John Watson.

Detective Lassiter, you are to assume the role of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Detective O'Hara, you are to assume the role of the lovely Irene Adler.

The clothes I have sent are all costumes for you to wear while in character.

The rules of the game are simple. You are, under no circumstances, to ask for outside help unless I approve of it, which I assure you, I most likely will not. You must play the game if you value your continuing existence. You must stay in character. These rules are the only things I demand of you. Good luck, gentlemen and Detective O'Hara.

The game is afoot!

Sincerely,
M."

So, what did you think? Did you like it? Love it? Hate it? Do you want to send me encouragement? Death threats? Drop me a review and let me know! Oh, and can any of you guess what "M" stands for? (It's an easy one, I assure you.)