As the door opened Lassiter kicked the covers over himself and tried not to panic. He heard the door close softly and someone moving in the suite. Then he saw O'Hara, gun pulled, pop her head around the corner and back again.

"Clear?" she called out.

"Yeah," Lassiter said sourly. "It's clear."

O'Hara holstered her Glock, hurried to his side and unlocked the cuffs. Lassiter rubbed his wrists and winced in pain.

"What the hell, Carlton?" she asked, looking at him with that same odd expression she'd had when he told her that he favored mandatory jail time for people who smoked near playgrounds.

"It's not what you think," he said. He couldn't exactly blame her if she assumed this was a one-night-stand gone wrong. He'd have thought the same thing if he'd found some guy handcuffed to a bed. Nine times out of ten he'd have been right.

"Shawn's been calling." The statement sounded like an accusation.

"What did you tell him?" Lassiter asked. He hated being treated like some John, caught with a hooker in the back of his SUV.

She looked pointedly at a chair in the corner. "I didn't tell Shawn where you were, just that I'd gotten a location and was checking it out."

"That's a relief," Lassiter muttered. He bunched the duvet around his waist. "Any chance you've got something I could wear?"

O'Hara blushed. "I think I've got some workout gear in the trunk."

She returned with a pair of Gus's track pants and a t-shirt from the SBPD baseball team. It was better than nothing. At least it didn't look like something out of Flashdance.

"You don't know how relieved I am to find you in one piece," she said as he dressed. "When I saw where you were, I kind of panicked."

"Why?"

O'Hara didn't answer for a moment. Then: "You're in room 1863," she said.

"Oh, Jesus." The last time he'd been here they'd been rescuing the waitress Mr. Yang had kidnapped and discovering that Shawn's mother was the serial killer's latest victim.

He ran his hand over the bathroom door. They'd repainted, but he could still feel tiny bumps where they hadn't gotten all the glue of the killer's iconic symbol off the door.

He turned to O'Hara. "I want this room sealed," he ordered. "I want CSUs in here combing every inch of this place."

"What exactly happened?" she asked, finally making eye contact.

"I don't know yet. But whatever it is, I need to keep my name out of it for now. I don't want anyone knowing how you found me."

O'Hara nodded and furrowed her brow. "I can delay the paperwork, but it would help if I had an idea of what kind of crime we're investigating." Neither of them mentioned Yin or Yang.

"Treat it as a kidnapping." He reached for his wallet and badge, then thought better of it. "Bag those and get them checked for prints. I'm going to have a word with the management."

O'Hara put a hand on his arm and this time her expression was all concern. "Are you okay, Carlton?"

He clenched his jaw and tried not to let his face betray the panic he was feeling. "I don't know yet."

The manager was eager to work with the police. A review of the room records and a call to the night staff provided some of the missing details. Lassiter had arrived at 10:00 p.m., apparently intoxicated, with two young women. The night clerk described the women as a blonde and a brunette, thin, in their twenties, but couldn't say much more. The room had been secured with Lassiter's own credit card. Lassiter filled O'Hara in on what little he'd learned.

"I can put a stop to any charges on your card," she assured him. "I'll have the room held until scene-of-crime is done."

"Good," Lassiter said. By which he meant Thank you, O'Hara. "When you're done here I need you to pick up the night clerk and have him go over mug shots, see if he can identify our suspects." He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath through his nose. "And call Shawn and let him know I'm okay." He fixed her with a full-force stare. "Do not mention where you found me."

"What are you going to do?" O'Hara asked, her face a mix of concern and disapproval.

"I need to go to the hospital."

Tests. He'd had dozens of tests. Countless vials of blood; hair and urine samples—the list went on and on. His doctor was in his forties and bore a more than passing resemblance to Jack Klugman.

"Well, Carlton," his Quincy look-alike said, "You've tested positive for gamma hydroxybutyric acid, or GHB." The doctor's voice was calm, as if the test result was merely an interesting curiosity, and not at all a key piece in Lassiter's large, potentially career-destroying puzzle.

"I see."

The scotch, he thought immediately. Supposedly from Chief Vick. Lassiter added Tom Blair's Pub to the list of places he needed to go.

"We generally see this in cases of drug-facilitated sexual assault," the doctor continued, "although some people take it recreationally."

Yeah, Lassiter thought bitterly, because who wouldn't want to feel like their life was falling apart?

"There's no evidence of sexual assault," the doctor continued, "although it'll take some time for the blood work to come back. In the meantime I'd like to administer some post exposure prophylactics." When he saw no flicker of understanding cross Lassiter's face he added, "To reduce your changes of becoming infected, in case you've been exposed to anything."

He looked at the chart and his brow furrowed. "It says here that you've listed your boyfriend as next of kin."

"Is there a problem with that?" Lassiter relished an opportunity to vent some of the frustration and anger he was feeling, and encountering some homophobe was exactly the excuse he needed to go off with both barrels.

"Just that you might want to hold off on any unprotected sexual intimacy until your test results clear." The doctor patted Lassiter's shoulder. "Better safe than sorry."

Lassiter didn't think that would be an issue. He wasn't sure if Shawn would even be talking to him after this.

Shawn's relief at seeing Lassiter walk through the door was tempered by his frustration and anger at having wondered where he was all night.

"Where the hell have you been?" he asked after gripping Lassiter in a 'thank God you're alive' hug and then stepping back to glare at him. "Is this about teaching me some kind of a lesson? Because that is not cool. I refuse to live in an episode of Full House."

Lassiter removed his tie. He was wired and antsy. He kept replaying the previous night in his head, hoping to find a lead. Having a fight with Shawn was not at the top of his to-do list. In fact, what he really wanted to do was take a long shower, put on a clean suit, and go back to work on the case.

"I wouldn't do that to you." Lassiter couldn't meet Shawn's eyes. Somehow, he felt that if he looked at him now he would tell him everything, and it didn't seem fair to dump that on Shawn's shoulders as well. It was the first rule of being a cop: protect the civilians, so they never have to know how bad things get out there. "You believe that, don't you?"

"Sure I do," Shawn said, his tone undercutting his words. "This is my believing you face."

"I'm working on a kidnapping," Lassiter said. "It got busy." It wasn't exactly a lie, it just wasn't the whole truth.

Shawn folded his arms. "I called you, like, a dozen times."

It was easy to figure out what he really meant: I was worried. I was scared.

"I didn't have my phone on." Lassiter longed to take him in his arms but worried about where it might lead. He didn't want to cap his day from hell by giving Shawn whatever his abductors might have infected him with. "I'm sorry, I should have called and said I'd be late."

"You're fifteen hours late." He could see it in Shawn's green eyes as they bored into him—he wasn't buying the excuse.

"I don't want to fight about it. I said I was sorry." If being the bad guy was what it took to keep Shawn safe, then fine. He'd be the bad guy.

Shawn smiled, and his smile looked tired and desperate. He moved closer. "So how about making it up to me?" He glanced down the hall toward their bedroom. "Charlotte's going to be asleep for another hour at least."

For a moment Lassiter thought about telling him everything. Then he steeled his nerve and took a step back. "I'm just not in the mood."

Already he could feel the pain in his shoulders and arms from being cuffed to the headboard. But that was nothing compared to the emotional pain he knew was coming. Shawn wouldn't have much reason to stick around if the sex was taken out of their relationship. He'd already made it clear that he wasn't interested in getting married. Since that argument, Lassiter had figured Shawn was just playing house with him until he got bored. This situation might be the last nail in the coffin.

Shawn looked at the too-short sweatpants and the SBPD softball t-shirt, as if finally noticing the strange attire.

"What happened to your clothes?"

"They got...dirty." Lassiter assumed that wherever his suit was, it was probably soiled by now. "Look, he added, "It's been a rough night and I have to go back in as soon as I'm showered and changed."

Shawn's lips thinned. "I get it. I'm wiped out too." He aimed a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm gonna hit the sack. Henry's coming by to watch Charlotte."

"Okay."

Shawn paused in the hallway. "She missed you last night."

Lassiter looked at the picture on the mantle from Charlotte's first birthday party—him, Shawn, Gus, O'Hara, and Henry standing protectively around her as she looked confusedly at the cake and its single flickering candle, tantalizingly out of reach.

"I missed her too," he said heavily. As in, I thought I might never see her again.

Shawn shuffled into the bedroom, alone, and Lassiter went into the bathroom to shower and take more Advil than he should. Which was when he remembered that he hadn't made it to the drugstore.

"I think Lassie's having an affair," Shawn said the moment Gus walked through the door of the Psych office.

Gus's forehead wrinkled as he set his briefcase on the floor by his desk. "What are you basing that on?" He'd gotten used to Shawn's crazy theories, like the time he'd been convinced that Henry was cross-dressing because he'd found a size large pair of black lace underwear in his hamper. Gus was certain that, just as the panties had a simple explanation (which seeing Henry walking hand-in-hand along the boardwalk with a curvaceous lady had supplied), whatever Shawn was basing his current theory on would turn out to be misconstrued.

"He's been coming home at odd hours." Shawn leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling, as if it held the answer to Lassiter's hidden motives.

"Cops work odd hours," Gus said. He sat at his desk and started his computer. "When Juliet and Lassie were working that jewelry heist case they stayed out until 4:00 a.m. for a week."

"He says he'd been working late," Shawn said, folding his arms, "but he won't explain where he's been." He pulled an almost empty bag of Corn Nuts from the detritus on his desk and dumped the remains into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

Gus looked at Shawn with sympathy. "Shawn, as much as they love us, we're not cops. There are some things we can't be privy to."

"I'm privy to everything," Shawn assured him. "I'm the privy council. I'm privylivious. I'm a brick—"

"—It doesn't mean anything," Gus cut in. He walked over to the coffeemaker he'd bought after Shawn had nearly destroyed his humidifier trying to make an Americano. "It's certainly not proof he's having an affair. It's not like he's a player." As far as Gus was concerned, he wasn't even sure Lassiter understood what the game was. He frowned at the cold sludge in the carafe. It looked like it had been brewed days ago. He dumped it and started a new pot.

Shawn turned up his trump card. "And we haven't had sex in almost a week. Ever since he stayed out all night. Little Shawn is starting to get a rejection complex."

"I did not need to know that." Gus looked thoughtfully at the coffee grounds as he spooned them into the filter. A lack of sex was traditionally one of the signs that something was amiss in a relationship. He turned the machine on and turned to face Shawn. "Have you asked him about it?"

"Yes, and he won't talk to me." Shawn picked up a magazine and rolled it into a tube. He started swishing it through the air, as if trying to shoo his doubts away. "He's giving me excuses about not being in the mood and having a lot on his mind. I know he's hiding something. And this Cosmo quiz says it's an affair!" He slapped the magazine down on the desk: Clarence Darrow closing the case.

"Suppose he is having an affair," Gus allowed, raising his voice over the bubbling gurgle of the coffeemaker. "Is he or she really a threat to you?"

Shawn's face fell. "Oh God. I never even thought about that." He put a fist to his mouth. "He could be seeing a woman, couldn't he?"

Gus poured the coffee into a mug and held it out to Shawn, who shook his head. Gus took an appreciative sniff of the fresh brew, in what he liked to think of as his Tasters Choice moment. "Would that be worse than him seeing another guy?" he asked, heading to his desk.

Shawn shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe." Gradually the shaking switched to nodding. "Yes. Probably yes. I'm going to tentatively go with a yes on that."

Gus tried to sound reassuring. "Honestly Shawn, I don't think you have anything to worry about. You guys have a kid together."

Shawn sat on the edge of his chair, hugged himself and rocked back and forth. "He has a kid. Legally, I'm just some guy who lives there. Oh God, what if he replaces me with some manny with a six-pack and a butt you could bounce a quarter off of? Someone like Ryan Gosling, or The Rock, or Alcide from True Blood. Or some doe-eyed waif with huge—" Shawn made cupping motions at his chest. "Christina Hendricks, Gus. What if she starts seeing someone like her?"

"—There's no need to panic, Shawn," Gus cut in. "You don't even know for sure that there's anything going on."

"There's something going on. I can feel it." Shawn thumped a fist against his chest. "Right here. Like a little voice, crying out." He spoke in a croaky, ethereal voice, "Shaaaawn...Lasssie is sleeeeping arooound..."

"If only you were a detective," Gus said sarcastically, "and could discover the truth before having a panic attack and making a bunch of life-ruining decisions."

Shawn nodded and clapped his hands loudly, as if dispelling the ghostly voice in his head. "You're right, Gus. Let's get to the bottom of this. You and me, buddy. Amigos. Simon and Simon. Starsky and Hutch. Rockford and..uh…" Shawn frowned, stymied by the fact that Jim Rockford often worked alone. "You get the idea."

Gus smiled reassuringly. "I'll help you look into it. First thing tomorrow." He looked at his calendar. "Today we have that thing with the guy and the dog."

Shawn sighed. "I'm not in a working mood," he complained. "I'm in a sit-in-the-dark-and-eat-three-cartons-of -Haagen-Dazs mood."

Gus raised an eyebrow. "Lassiter isn't the only one with work to do, you know. I'm still paying off the back veranda we installed on the house."

"Fine. I'll work. But my heart won't be in it."

"I'll tell you what," Gus offered. "Why don't you run over to the 7-11 on Montecito and grab some comfort food. We'll stash it in the fridge, solve the case with the guy and the dog, and then come back here for wallowing. I'll even watch Miss Congeniality with you."

"Really?" A small smile crept across Shawn's lips.

"Really." Gus smiled until Shawn had thrown on his jacket and left, then his face turned serious. He picked up his phone and called a friend from college who had a law practice in Santa Barbara. Shawn was probably overreacting, but one of them had to prepare for the worst-case scenario. And investigating your legal standing in the event that your same-sex relationship broke up was what best friends were for.