Seven-year-old Jim was playing with magnets in his spare time. They were standard, the bar-shaped ones with S painted on one end and N on the other. He had two of them and kept trying to push the ends with the same label together. And when he got bored and frustrated with that, he tried to see how close he could hold two differently-labeled ends before they get sucked together.

He had gotten curious after catching a glimpse of a page of the newspaper he would have otherwise never thought twice about. Apparently, there was a section called the 'Horoscopes' in which futures are predicted, day after day, week after week.

And to his part, it said: 'The one you are most compatible with will be your polar opposite.'

So Jim decided to do some research. And apparently, there was his proof right there that perhaps the Horoscope, a weird but interesting find, would have an ounce of possibility in it becoming true.

After all, opposites attract, apparently.

XXX

In a ridiculously posh hotel in downtown Santa Barbara, Jim took a sip from his green apple Slushie, eyes combing through ink on paper as he did so. That Shawn Spencer said he was a Consultant Detective.

Sherlock's words, heard through a bug, resounded back in his head, accompanied with slight static, but very clear. "I'm a Consultant Detective. Only one in the world – I invented the job."

Only one in the world my ass, Jim furrowed his eyebrows. Could this Spencer be involved somehow? Does he know something? Am I being played? The detective wasn't dead, he knew that. After all, neither is he.

The papers – school, health and even a short criminal record – painted a whole life out before Jim.

Shawn Spencer, 32. Apparently a child prodigy, but had troubles with ADHD and other deficiencies that lead to him not becoming very popular with the teachers. Parents divorced when he was fifteen. Father a retired cop-turned-detective named Henry Spencer and mother a psychologist. Engaged in petty crimes in his teens, was apparently the source of a number of tips to the police which lead to the successful capture of criminals all the way from killers to kidnappers to druggies to thieves. Held over fifty odd jobs before finally becoming an official consultant for the Santa Barbara police department and a private detective agency with Burton Guster. And apparently, he had 'supernatural' psychic powers.

So this Spencer was the problem that had been thwarting his and by extension, his international client's plans here.

And apparently all the way to Canada and back.

The problem.

Hmm.

"Interesting," Jim heard himself say, drawing the word out and almost singing it. He had left the fake hickey to be seen to trick Spencer, and that had worked… sort of, but that doesn't prove a thing. He'd been able to trick Sherlock into thinking he was nothing but gay 'Jim from IT', after all.

Spencer genuinely seemed to have never seen him before, so unless he was just a really, really, flawlessly good actor to be able to fool a genius criminal mastermind, Spencer wasn't working for Sherlock. Or with Sherlock. There's a difference.

"Shut up," he said automatically, then realized that he was technically telling himself that, and scowled. He was able to trick all of the police, a couple of feds and everyone he's ever met, which is basically everyone who's ever stepped foot inside this town. And more.

"But he's not. Tricking me," Jim spat, face scrunched up in disgust, and threw his half-empty Slushie cup across the room. The half-ice, dangerously vivid liquid splattered against expensive wallpapers and slid down to form a stain on the carpet. Jim paid it no mind. "Nobody. Ever gets to me."

He jumped up and crossed the room in two strides, crashing against the table that held his laptop and phone. The phone was grabbed and, after the quick punching of buttons, was cradled against the side of Jim's head as his other hand worked to get traffic footage from across the city.

"Sebby," he crooned, eyes alight with embers as he rattled off an address, a street, a location. "Caucasian male, early thirties. Blue checkered shirt, leather jacket, dark hair, slight stubble. Shawn Spencer. Get him here. Now. Oh, and he's carrying a pineapple."

He hung up.

XXX

Shawn felt happy. Like, legitimately happy. Or at least content. He had walked back into his apartment to find the living room bathed in light from the TV screen, none other than Gus sprawled out all over the couch, a half-empty popcorn bowl perched on his stomach and cans of coke littered all over. True to his word earlier with Julie, he checked up on him.

"Yo Gus! Wake up!" he shouted, hauling his grocery bags to the kitchen. "Jules asked if we'd want to go to lunch tomorrow. You up for it?"

A groan answered him, followed by a sharp inhaled yawn. "Yea-up. Yeah, sure, hu – wait, Shawn?"

"Yeah?" In the end, Shawn gave up trying to figure out what food goes where inside the fridge and just threw whole bags inside.

Gus had a moment's pause before he scrambled to sit up, turning the TV off and then on again when the whole room was bathed in darkness and he accidentally spilled a can's worth of coke into the popcorn, and then the concoction on himself. He cursed, dropping the bowl safely back on the coffee table and then checking the damage to his dark blue dress shirt.

"Oh yeah, what were you doing here anyways?" Shawn said, getting a glass of water. The faint sweet taste of sugar and caffeine was still stuck in his mouth. He'd rather it be replaced with the taste of pineapples. Hmm…

"The door was unlocked," replied Gus simply.

"So you decided to just barge in here like those drop-in characters from Seinfield?" Shawn extracted a pack of pre-cut pineapples from the pile of things in the fridge and opened it, popping a slice into his mouth without a second thought.

Gus looked like he was about to protest before he stopped, shrugging. "Fair enough," he said, and went to turn on the light. "And yeah, I'm free tomorrow. Don't worry about it."

Shawn hummed, leaning against his counter, a dreamy spaced-out look on his face. Gus gave him a weird look.

"I haven't seen you happy since Jules," he asked. "Found a girl, did you?"

"A guy, actually," Shawn said, not even noticing the accidental jibe at the sore spot between Juliet and himself.

Gus blinked. "No way."

"Way. I got his number even."

"Uh, okay, there's something new I didn't know about you," Gus shifted his weight on his legs, looking very uncomfortable.

"What did I tell you Gus? I'm a man of untold mysteries," Shawn shook his head as if coming out of a trance. He took a glance at Gus and wrinkled his nose slightly. "What? Oh come off it Gus, I'm not in love with you." Pause. "Nor am I in love in Lassiter." Pause again. "Wait, Gus. I am not gay."

"Uh-huh," Gus didn't look convinced, but a bit relieved at the former denial, maybe.

"No, I'm serious! I just met a guy who might be a criminal mastermind, that's all. I mean, he did remind me a bit of the Joker… and plus," Shawn jumped around as he tried to find the napkin from earlier. "He did give me his number."

"Yeah, right," deadpanned Gus. His eyes widened when he caught sight of the clock. "Oh crap! Shawn, we gotta go, come on! It's almost time for the national Battle of the Matheletes!"

"What? Again? After the Bee?" Shawn contemplated his chances of getting out of this. Not very high. In the end, he sighed and grumbled. "There better be a murder by the end of the day."

Gus let him keep his pineapple, but not the whole pack, he said, so after a while, he agreed.

"Shawn," Gus started, while the both of them walked down the road. "People are staring."

"Yeah, so?" Shawn ran his fingers against the rough individual spikes of his beloved pineapple. He had brought along the biggest one he'd bought, just out of spite. He smiled smugly when a couple of people openly stared at them as they passed. Or, to be more specific, at the pineapple which was currently being cradled like a baby in Shawn's arms.

"Did you really have to bring a whole one?" Exasperation was layered on thick in that sentence, in such a way that suggested that this kind of thing happened often. Which it did.

"Ah, well see, Mr Guster, 'tis the art of shaming-your-friend-as-much-as-possible-when-he-forces-you-to-attend-a-mind-numbingly-boring-academic-event," replied Shawn easily, right as they rounded a corner and came into sight of an impressive hall – built just for events like these. Shawn could already feel himself regretting his decision to come along. "Uh, you know what?" he said, actually turning slightly pale. "You go ahead. I need to sit down and put my head between my knees until all the nausea of lost childhoods is gone."

"Shawn, seriously here –"

"Yeah, of course Bud I'm serious, just go ahead and I'll be there. Row thirteen far left end, right? Now go," Shawn put his head down and waved the arm not holding his pineapple close wildly, catching Gus a few times before the man had the time to move back. "Go away. You're late."

"I – Holy -!" he cursed. "My seat's gonna get revoked! Alright, Shawn, you…." He gestured randomly with his hands and whinnied like a horse. Shawn waved at him again, not looking up from his 'nausea-therapy'.

Gus wasted no time turning around and running away like he was on fire, and Shawn waited exactly thirty seconds before straightening up and turning around. The coffee-kissed napkin weighed heavily inside his pocket. "I know you're there," he called. "Mind showing your face? …Maybe a name, too? That'd be great."

"Boss didn't tell me you were a genius too," a smooth, deep voice sounded behind him. Shawn whirled around to face his stalker.

Now, Shawn was not short. He was of average height, thank you very much – it's just that sometimes, other people just may be taller than him by a bit. A bit.

But this man was huge. Not in bulky in the body-builder sense, with bulging muscles and a thick head, but definitely showing that he kept active. A lot.

He was tall, too. A large waist pack hung at his side, and Shawn had no doubts as to what was inside. The guy had sun-bleached blonde hair cut short military-style, and icy blue eyes that demanded respect out of the ability to instill frigid fear in their victims' hearts. Tan skin, calloused hands, and clothing that was loose enough to be comfortable but tight enough to move easily in.

A fighter.

More importantly, a weapon-head.

Shawn shifted his grip on his pineapple and grabbed it by its rigid leafy stem, holding it beside his head like a bat. He fell into a batter's stance. "Who are you?"

The blonde man smiled, and gave a diminutive signal with his left fingers. Arms wrap around his middle and Shawn was lifted into the air, legs flailing. His mouth open and he was about to scream but a hand slipped over it and muffled any and all sound that he made. Shawn looked up and wasn't entirely surprised when he saw the blonde man suddenly leaning over him, a small, cold parody of a smile on his face.

Shawn got one of his hands free and swung it blindly, a small prick of triumph spiked inside him when he felt the fruit in his hand impact with something and heard a muffled swear out of the mouth of one of his assailants.

The feeling promptly disappeared as darkness started clouding the edges of his vision. Shawn felt his muscles relax against his will and his body go limp. Cold panic rose inside him, completely useless. When had he been drugged? His makeshift yellow bludgeon slipped from his fingers. The last thing he heard before his consciousness left him was, "I got him boss. Same place, right?"

XXX

When Sebastian came in, it was with a scowl and several small, bleeding cuts on one side of his face. Jim put on a mock-concern face (that might or might not have been less than fake) and thought it proper to inquire about the slight injury. But not before he gestured for the other man to strap the limp form of one fake psychic to a chair in the middle of the hotel room-turned-interrogation room, of course.

"Did you trip and fall on your face, Sebby?" he said, pointing to the bathroom door, where the first aid kit was.

"No. That little prat over there just thought it was alright to slap me. With a pineapple," Sebastian grumbled, his tone making it clear that he wanted to use a much stronger word than just prat.

"Pineapple…?" Jim repeated, before bursting into a fit of loud laughter that made the unnamed thug gingerly wrapping manila rope in a repeating knot around Spencer's arms look up worriedly, just in case the lives of him, his friends and family, and their friends and family were in danger. Fortunately for him, Jim waved him off as if he had read his mind.

Sebastian didn't seem to share the humor. "Yeah, pineapple. Apparently normal doses of sedatives aren't enough to put him under immediately. Strong resistance, that one."

"Hmm," was all Jim said to that. He filed the extra information away.

A low groan stopped everyone in the room. Jim looked pointedly at the goon still on his knees behind Spencer's chair, then at the door. The man scrambled out of the room as if his life was at stake. Correction – because his life was at stake.

Jim galloped over to his place against the far wall, where Spencer would have to turn his head one hundred and eighty degrees to be able to see him.

Spencer lifted his head, and that was Moran's queue to step forward, the cuts on his face disinfected and covered. The blonde had his arms crossed over a broad chest, a stern, dangerously calm look on his scarred face. He leaned in close as to intimidate the interogatee as well as to keep an eye for changes in expression, sweat rate, etcetera.

"Mr Spencer," he rumbled. "I would like to ask you a few questions."

XXX

When Shawn opened his eyes, nothing was there to greet him but blobs of color and light dancing around before his eyes. His ears picked up noise around him, but they sounded more like 'Moves Like Jagger' for him to make any sense out of.

He squinted, trying to adjust his vision back to reality. Unfortunately for him though, his sense of hearing recovered sooner than his sight, and he was just in time to hear the last part of what was undoubtedly a threat of some sort.

"…ask you a few questions."

"Wha…" he mumbled, lifting his head higher if that would maybe somehow help. It didn't, but a few seconds later his eyes adjusted back to the light and he could see clearly again… and was met by the stoic gaze of the face of the only kidnapper he'd been able to see. "Whoah!"

His legs pushed against the ground on instinct, as if to try to start to run away, but that only served more harm than good as the chair he'd been strapped to immediately tilted backwards, drastically. For a few heartstopping moments, Shawn thought he was going to fall, and wondered how much of his brainpower's going to be blocked out from the pain of crushed wrists and forearms. Then a hand shot out to steady the chair and Shawn could breathe again.

The chair legs slammed back down on the carpeted floor with brutal force. It took a while for Shawn to realize that he was breathing heavier. The adrenaline rush faded a while later, but he kept his breaths labored. Let them think I'm scared, he thought, internally giggling like a schoolboy who's watching for his prank to turn into motion.

"W-w-what?" he repeated. Eyes wide, voice pitch an octave higher, speech quickened and slurred. Hopefully, his skin looked pallid enough, and hopefully – he lowered his head to make it seem like he was trying not to go to shock – the man, though Shawn really doubted it, won't try to make too much eye contact.

Because after all, people say that the eyes are a window to your soul, and Shawn was pretty sure his soul was jumping around in excitement as far as his soul could go.

"Shawn," the man said, his British accent thick on his tongue, as if he had been saying the name for all of his life instead of just trying it out. "Are you in any way familiar with the name Sherlock Holmes?"