A/N: WOW! You guys are such awesome readers. Seriously, I never expected this to get so big or for it to even be more than a one-shot deal! As I said before, some of you don't have PMs enabled, so please fix that so I can thank each and every one of you! Someone reviewed that I'm a great writer and I can't let that go un-responded! Also - GiGiLiz: YES! SHULES! :D You're not alone. It WILL happen. I have a plan, trust me. Again - thank you everybody for reading!

Gus can't quite place his finger on it, but sometime between when he started working for the Santa Barbara Police Department and now, he, Juliet, and Lassiter formed a bond. It was never really a spoken sort of thing – just there, which is why, he supposes, they're all sitting on Juliet's couch, in her apartment, watching and not watching Law & Order, occasionally pulling up handfuls of popcorn from each of their bowls and commenting on the un-realisticness of the detective-solving. After all, they live the show. No, they live better than the show. And they dress better, too, Gus adds to himself.

"Gus?" Juliet prods him gently. "Gus?"

He blinks, slowly, and realizes that he's been sleeping the past three hours. The TV's off, and Bach is playing in the background. From past experience, Gus knows that Juliet calms down whenever symphonies are on. He rubs one eye and slowly props himself up. "Where's Lassiter?" he asks curiously.

"Went back to his place." Juliet shrugs, a sad smile pasted on her face.

"Oh," Gus says, almost inaudibly, realizing that Juliet was sad to see Lassiter go.

Juliet walks into her kitchen and opens the fridge. "Do you want something to drink?" she asks conversationally.

Gus ambles his way over to the counter. "Alright, sure."

She pours some type of juice into a glass and slides it Gus's way before asking, "Has Shawn…called you at all?"

Gus sighs, knowing it would eventually get to this. Juliet misses Shawn. He misses Shawn. Hell, even his dad might miss Shawn. But, if Shawn's nowhere to be found, then no one will ever contact him. He used to do it all the time when they were younger – disappearing for weeks at a time, calling from some dive bar or carnival, animatedly talking about a new job he'd gotten. "No, he hasn't." He lifts the glass to his lips and swallows a huge gulp, waiting for Juliet's response.

"Oh." She seems to deflate. "He hasn't been answering my calls."

Inwardly, Gus is arguing with himself. Tell her…no, don't tell her, you don't even know what it is yet…no, you have to, she may be your future best friend's wife.

"Juliet…" Gus hesitates. "Juliet, I think something's going on with Shawn."

Her eyebrow raises in curiosity. "Like what?"

"He's been very…" Gus chooses his words carefully. "Withdrawn."

Juliet nods slowly.

"He doesn't talk much; he doesn't joke around that much. I would say he's depressed, but I've seen this in other patients before. Something…traumatic happened to him, and now he's run away from it. It must have happened here, in Santa Barbara. It could have been a number of things…" Gus stops when he sees the look of horror on Juliet's face.

"Oh my God…" She presses her hand against her mouth. "Poor Shawn."

"I say we give it a week," Gus continues. "Then…we go find him. Because wherever he is, he needs some familiar faces."

The next day…

Shawn rises awake on the floor of Ryan's apartment (Sarah took the couch) and he yawns, stretches, and then says to himself, "NBC is interviewing me today." And it is no typical pseudo-psychic BS. This is him spilling his real feelings out. Really psychic. Really telling the truth. No more going back.

He showers, gets dressed in the clothes Ryan threw at him last night and told him he would look "TV-presentable", and sits down at the kitchen table, which Ryan is scrubbing furiously with Pine Sol.

"Dude – seriously?" Shawn attempts to bring his sleeve up to his nose to block out the scent but Ryan slaps it away.

"Don't get any boogies on it," He chides.

"Boogies? Okay, that's it – I'm out of here." Shawn pushes back his chair. "I'll go get breakfast. Sarah?" He calls, beckoning the young nurse from the living room.

"Right with you."

Gus really wishes that this would stop happening.

He's waiting to introduce yet another new medication to a private practice, when, on the TV mounted on the wall, Shawn appears. On an NBC interview. Shawn. He's sitting, one leg crossed the other, wearing Dockers and a long-sleeved, button-up shirt and loafers. His hair is tamed – and he's smiling, casually, like he hasn't a care in the world.

Gus wishes he could reach through the television and smack his best friend.

"Well, John," Shawn is saying, "I just did what any decent psychic would do. I sensed"-he gestured this, hands out-"it coming, and I ran to help. Of course, Sarah was running after me, thinking I was delusional."

"And what about this Sarah?" The interview asks. "Have you two always known each other?"

Gus feels his lunch turning in his stomach.

"I just met her that day," Shawn admits. "But we've become pretty close friends. She still insists on keeping an eye on me after that day." He lets a grin slip, and his bright white teeth showcase.

"Close friends?" The reporter is teasing, and Gus can tell Shawn's uncomfortable.

"Uh, not that close." Shawn lets out a nervous laugh. "I've got a, uh…girlfriend waiting for me back home."

Back home?

The reporter laughs as well, and then it's back to the regular news and Gus just sits there in his chair like stone, unable to move, not even when the secretary calls him into the office. He just sits and stews.

A few hours earlier…

After both Shawn and Sarah have had their fill of McDonalds' buttermilk pancakes and questionable-looking scrambled eggs, they sit down at the table and decide what to say and what not to say during the interview. Ryan sits at the head of it, a notebook opened up to a fresh page in front of him, a fancy-schmacy silver pen by its side. He's nervously fiddling with the collar of his shirt and then finally says, "Okay, so we can't take saying you're psychic off the table."

Shawn shoots him a glare. Then he looks over to Sarah, but she just shrugs, neutral in this argument. She knows that Shawn is psychic (or, well, Shawn told her the faux-psychic spiel, the one about their private detective agency and all of the cases and the extravagant revealings) but she doesn't really know him well enough to restrict him from blurting out anything personal on national television.

"Okay…" Ryan holds up his hands, as if in surrender, and then quickly scribbles down address the psychic thing. "So, they're going to get right down to what happened," Ryan warns. "They're going to want to know how you knew the stage was going to collapse. They'll want details, but not too many. America doesn't care what color the shirt was you were wearing when you saved the innocents."

Shawn nods, knowing Ryan is in his Take Charge mode. He can't wait until the interview is over, by then Ryan will sink back down into his calm and cool demeanor.

"They'll be coming in two hours," Sarah interrupts Ryan's mode. "Which means brush your teeth, because those god-awful eggs have given you the worst breath I've ever smelled and also, wash your face. Put on some cologne. Don't put on a suit jacket, just the long-sleeved shirt. Jacket says too much. The shirt says just enough."

Shawn's eyes sparkle the way they always do when he is amused. If he hadn't known Sarah was known, he would take her for one of those PR people, with their head sets and high heels. "Alright." He gets up from the table and goes into the bathroom, listening to Sarah and Ryan chat easily about The Walking Dead and something about pinstripes vs. polos.

Two hours seem to fly by, and all too soon, the NBC people are knocking at Ryan's door and he's opening it and waving his arm in a flourish and they're setting up lights and fancy technical things and using one whole side of Ryan's living room as the interview backdrop. For Shawn, he will get the middle of Ryan's espresso-colored couch, and for the interviewer, John Triponi, will get a hard-backed kitchen chair, which Ryan profusely apologizes for, but the older man simply waves him off. Two technical advisor-people clip a wire on Shawn and all of a sudden, they are crash-landing right into an interview.

"So, Shawn Spencer," John Triponi begins, his deep voice echoing through the small apartment. His brown eyes bore into Shawn's with such intensity he legitimately wants to turn away. "You're a psychic, correct?"

Shawn laughs. "I am indeed."

"You've had a private agency for…what is it, five years?"

"Almost six, actually," Shawn corrects politely. "My best friend Gus and I started the agency, never thinking it would have the success it does now. It's pretty awesome. We help a lot of people."

John smiles. "And when did you know that the stage was going to collapse?"

Shawn keeps the eye contact, hard as it is, but he manages to get a response out, "As soon as I felt it."

"Felt?" John seems to be teasing.

"Well, John, I just did what any decent psychic would do." Shawn confides, aware that he is telling the real, actual truth. "I sensed it coming, and I ran to help. Of course, Sarah was running after me, thinking I was delusional."

"And what about this Sarah?" John pries. "Have you two always known each other?"

Shawn knows instantly that John wants to know if they're together, and he regrets having taken this interview in the first place. Juliet's going to see this. And she's going to be pissed. "I just met her that day," he admits, carefully. "But we've become pretty close friends. She still insists on keeping an eye on me after that day." He smiles.

"Close friends?" John presses on.

"Uh, not that close." Shawn laughs again. "I've got a, uh...girlfriend waiting for me back home."

And then someone says, "Cut!" and it's all over, just like that.