He intentionally hadn't told Mike about that strange feeling of being watched the previous day. And yet, there it was again. A couple hours since his friend left for downtown, Steve could feel the hairs on his forearms stand on end.

Glancing up from his seated position on the couch, he could only see the rooftops of the nearby buildings against the glow of the city lights. The rain and fog had left San Francisco for a precious few hours, if he were to believe the weatherman on the radio, giving them a short reprieve before another front would move through tomorrow.

It's just this case, Steve told himself over and over again, trying to assuage his fears of being watched by rationalizing that the pressure they'd been put under was simply getting the better of him; that Mike repeatedly depicting a nightmare of finding him strangled to death was starting to make him uneasy, downright paranoid; and that maybe, the busy few days that laid behind them had corrupted his clear thinking, making him fear that their killer might have set the stage for an elaborate plot they wouldn't be able to figure out until more people died.

Drawing in a deep breath, Steve put the copy of Hamlet aside for a moment and stood up to look out of his alcove window. The stairs down below were still shiny with leftover rainwater, as was Union Street. Every parking spot was taken, and many of the buildings across the street were lit up, people coming together to eat dinner and enjoy each other's company.

It made him ponder about the long hours in his chosen line of work, making it impossible to form any sort of lasting relationship, something Steve had long come to peace with. Each day, they were faced with the very real and frightening dangers that followed them through every single case, every arrest made, every warrant they served.

As their careers made them mingle with every imaginable layer of the public, every low-life and every high-falutin crook San Francisco had to offer; it was truly ironic that they both found themselves in an atmosphere of complete solitude each night.

Somewhere across town was his best friend, probably getting ready to go to bed soon, horribly afraid to have another traumatizing nightmare.

And over here, Steve was growing more paranoid by the hour, hoping that Mike's nightmare wasn't some foreboding vision of his untimely demise.

Running a hand through his wavy hair, he shook off the morose thoughts for the time being and returned to the comfort of his couch, bound and determined to finish reading Hamlet tonight, even if it meant only a few hours of sleep before Mike would pick him up at 7.

With his back turned toward the window, Steve never had a chance to see the rooftop shadow across the street disappear beneath the darkness of the fire escape ladder.