Chapter 2

(Next Chapter)

After a brief contemplation of his situation, Lassiter came to the decision that he would refrain from making any decision until he got the results back from Dr. Tolbert. Lassiter made a point to forcibly ignore the little voice trying to creep into his brain whispering, 'You're in denial.'

He rationalized that the positives of waiting far outweighed the negatives. For one, it might just be an ulcer or virus which could probably be treated by prescription medication and without anyone finding out. He wouldn't even have to miss a day of work. Two, if he did tell everyone he would have to endure the sympathetic looks and all those cliché sayings about hope. Three, he didn't want Vick to think this impeded his ability to do his job in any way. It was a usual form of torture for Lassiter to be stuck on desk duty. No, he decided to wait and see what the test results yielded before planning his next move. And if Lassiter had any doubts, all he had to do was pop a couple of the prescribed pills, and presto! The pain would be gone.

On Monday morning, Lassiter took a taxi to work. He knew he would be drilled about this uncharacteristic behavior so before coming to work he had invented a story that his Crown-Vick had gotten a flat tire. The brief image of O'Hara dropping him off and seeing his car wholly intact popped into his head. Being a good detective she would be quick to raise some uncomfortable questions. To justify the veracity of his story, Lassiter actually took a kitchen knife to the left rear tire. It caused Lassiter great distress to willfully cause damage to his own car. It was going to cost the city's tax dollars to fix it; but he simply didn't see any other option. It was a bitter pill to swallow but it was a pill Lassiter swallowed willingly, all so he could protect his secret, avoid desk duty, and stay of the streets solving crimes; where he believed he belonged.

"Where's your car?" O'Hara asked, as he knew she would, as he settled himself down in his chair.

"Flat tires," Lassiter said, switching on his computer. "I didn't have time to fix them before work."

"Bad luck," O'Hara said, clicking her tongue. "Want me to grab you a coffee? I heading that way."

Lassiter's stomach twisted as he contemplated the gut punch an acidic drink like coffee would induce. "No thanks."

O'Hara shrugged before heading off to the coffee bar.

Lassiter pulled the pile of files closer to himself with only a slight twinge of pain; the pills, while still effective, had begun to lose their potency ever since Sunday morning.

"What's up, Lassie-face?" Shawn chimed in a sing-song voice.

Shawn's unexpected appearance at his side make Lassiter jump, which in turn caused his knobby knees to bang audibly against the desk. To everyone else, Lassiter's expression of agony stemmed from that, when in fact the true cause was the jerky movement of his torso.

"Damn it," Lassiter growled.

"I'm sorry, Lassie," Shawn said apologetically. "What happened to your usual cat-like reflexes?" Shawn imitated a feline as he curled his hands in a weak impression of clawed paws and hissed loudly.

"I don't know," Lassiter snapped, still hunched over.

"Maybe there taking a cat nap, eh?" Shawn said, winking at Lassiter.

"For God's sake, Spencer. Go away." Lassiter tried to take in deep, steadying breaths without noticing.

Shawn studied Lassiter with his brow furrowed. "Seriously, dude, are you okay? How hard did you hit your knees?"

"I'm fine." Lassiter straightened up in his chair as if to prove it.

Shawn still didn't look convinced. "I'll go get an ice pack."

"I'm fine," Lassiter called at Shawn's retreating back as he strode down the hall toward the break room.

Shawn and O'Hara passed each other in the hallway.

"Shawn," O'Hara said smiling. "Leaving already?"

"Without saying hello to my favorite detective? Never."

O'Hara blushed.

"I was just heading to the break room to grab an ice pack. I startled Lassiter into banging his long old scarecrow knees against his desk."

"You startled Lassiter?" O'Hara asked, somewhat surprised.

"I know, right? Either I'm getting better or Lassie is losing his touch." They both turned to glance at Lassiter, who was pouring over one of the many files stacked on his desk. "Does he look a bit-"Shawn was struggling to find the right word, "a bit. . ."

"Sad," O'Hara finished.