Disclaimers et al-- See Chapter 1.

A/N: My deepest and sincere apologies for my delay with this chapter. Between work and buying a home, things have been rather chaotic. Little did I know that buying a home would eat up so much of my free time. It's definitely an exciting, yet terrifying experience. I've digressed long enough. Thank you so much for the reviews and comments. My apologies if I haven't responded back to all of the notes. I've been a bit waylaid at the moment, but let me reassure you that they were read and deeply appreciated.

Story Notes: I've taken some liberties with respect to the characters' backgrounds. With time, it will likely prove to be non-canon, but such is the way of fanfic. Special thanks to my beta, k. This was a rather troublesome chapter that still seems to suffer from flashback syndrome. I've decided to simply embrace my new found love for flashbacks and hope that it doesn't prove terminal for the story. And by now, I'm sure you are pleading for less medical puns… (sorry! )

Summary: The set-up. The betrayal. And male bonding? On to Chapter 4!

Title: Disoriented by- Miss Weather

OoOo Chapter 4 oOoO

"It's always darkest, before it's totally black." Chairman Mao.

He watched in horror as the detective's features went abruptly slack, and Lassiter fell still. Too still. Shawn reached over in a panic, his fingers fumbling across Lassiter's neck, searching for his pulse. It took several long seconds, but he was able to feel it beat rapidly underneath his fingertips.

Thank God. He rubbed his hands over his face. He's getting worse, Shawn realized miserably. And there was not a damn thing he could do about it.

Damn it! He scrubbed the back of his neck as he felt the muscles tighten from stress. He didn't understand why he said half of the things he did on most occasions. Truth be told, he never quite had control over the things he said, never thought first before speaking. He had been caught up in his own lies, fueling Lassiter's outrage.

And now, Lassiter's outburst had left him feeling unbalanced and completely discombobulated. He knew that the detective wasn't a fan, but he hadn't expected such a fervent berating. He should have ignored the Lassiter's comments, should have said nothing. But, he couldn't keep his mouth shut and things were made worse as a result.

He forced himself to be adult enough to push the comments aside for the time being. The situation was unbearable and both men were upset. And rightfully so, he relented. I should be out on a date, enjoying my Friday night and not trapped in this damn room with Lassiter.

Shawn's thoughts drifted back over the evening's events, as he tossed another paper airplane across the room. As the plane looped then careened into the floor, he considered his actions.

OoOoOoO

Early Friday evening

"What's a 15 letter word for a whimsical, scatterbrained person?" Shawn asked.

"Shawn Spencer," Lassiter grumbled, clearly annoyed with the constant distractions.

"Ha, ha, but it doesn't fit," Shawn said as he doodled along the margins of Gus's crossword book.

He was bored. So very bored. For the better part of an hour, he had been working on a crossword puzzle while Lassiter completed his paperwork. As per his usual, he was creating his own unique words to match the definitions. Gus hates when I do that, he thought wryly.

He needed a diversion from the monotony of sitting and waiting. Ordinarily, he would bait Gus or Jules into providing some distraction or conversation to help pass the time. Sadly, Lassiter refused to offer any sort of entertainment, forcing Shawn to take refuge in a crossword puzzle

"How about this one, 3 down, another name for a bald head?"

"Could you just pretend to be an adult for a little while? If you sit still and be quiet, I'll give you a cookie," Lassiter retorted from his desk chair across from Shawn.

"Fine. Whatever, Lassie. No need to get your panties in a twist."

Strike one, he mused. He wasn't going to be able to goad him into an argument this time. The detective had an abundance of paperwork and was determined to complete it before the weekend. Shawn sighed as they were interrupted by Lassiter's phone. He watched the detective unclench his teeth before answering.

They had made a lot of progress on the case, thanks in no small part to Shawn's help. The combination of a little research and a good hunch had paid off. The stolen arms had been relocated to an abandoned factory near the city limits. Shawn identified that Brackett had connections in the garment industry; specifically, at an old machine shop west of the city. Surveillance had been set up and the teams were on stand-by, it was a simple matter of waiting for the "buy" to go down.

Brackett was nothing more than the middle man in this current deal. He had "acquired" the arms and was trying to sell them off. The SBPD task force was hoping to not only identify the buyers, but find out who had supplied Brackett with the stolen arms.

All of this had recently been confirmed by the Department's undercover officer. Lewis had been working undercover as "muscle" for Brackett for several months. However, despite his best efforts, he was considerably low on the "information totem pole" in the little operation. He had not been privy to all information regarding the latest deal, including specific timeline of the deal, or the identities of the sellers. According to the Lewis, Brackett was looking to quickly sell the stolen arms to an unknown buyer and relocate overseas. At this point, this raid was their best opportunity to catch not only Brackett and his associates, but confiscate the stolen arms and ammunition.

Shawn idly leafed through the puzzle book, as he sat with his feet propped on Lassiter's desk. He was extremely pleased with himself at the moment. His visions were perfectly timed, and everything was working out as he had hoped. Score one for the head psychic.

Lassiter hung up the phone and exited his office to wave over a pair of uniformed officers. "Ok. That was Detective Lewis. Something's come up. DeSantos, you're with me."

"What's up? Where are we going?" Shawn asked, tossing his book on the desk.

"We?" Lassiter grimaced, jabbing a finger at the other man. "We aren't going anywhere. I'm going to meet up with Lewis and you're going home."

"No way! The Chief said I could help."

"And you did. Now go home, Spencer," Lassiter ordered.

"Why can't I come?" Shawn asked, not caring how petulant he sounded.

Lassiter glared. "Because. Oh, let me think on this for a second. Could it be because I haven't taken complete leave of my senses?"

"I can help!" Shawn replied, sullen.

"Let me break it down for you, Spencer. NO!" Lassiter shouted. "Now, go home!"

He adopted his best bright, fake smile as he raised his hands in surrender. "Okay. Okay, you win, Lassie. I'm out of here. Besides, I'm sure Jules could use a little cheering up. Bonus! I get to tell her all how SBPD's head psychic, moi, solved the case."

Not paying any mind to the fake psychic, Lassiter simply rolled his eyes and walked away. Shawn wasn't surprised by Lassiter's attitude. The detective had been unusually tense. Beyond the usual "stick up the ass" tense that he had come to know as Lassiter's typical disposition. It was clear that the long days were wearing everyone down. Everyone that is, except for Shawn. He felt energized, as clues lead them to what he hoped was a quick resolution. He just had to be patient. They had the where; they just had to wait for the buyers to arrive into town.

Shawn walked out of the station to his motorcycle, his suspicious mind in full gear. He couldn't quite put his finger on why he was bothered by this late night phone call and meeting. Lewis had been passing information along to Lassiter through the usual means (phone, messages, etc). This had been the first request for an unscheduled face-to-face meeting. And it had him puzzled. He couldn't figure out why the younger man would need to speak with the head detective in person.

Several oddities had popped up over the course of the investigation. Finding the factory had been surprisingly easy. Shawn couldn't figure out why they would have selected such an obvious location within city limits. Plus, a couple of finer details with the undercover detective and friend troubled him. Lewis had been clueless with so many details, but was able to confirm the location of the arms far too quickly. Shawn had been willing to give his friend the benefit of the doubt over the course of the week. But now, the little things gnawed at him.

Shawn wasn't willing to idly sit by after he had invested both time and energy into this investigation. There were too many small questions that he wanted answers to. With his mind set, he climbed onto his motorcycle and headed after Lassiter's sedan.

With some rather creative shortcuts (two parking lots, an empty lot, and the sidewalk), he was able to catch up to the detective's car as they got onto the highway. He was forced to push his misgivings to the side, as he directed his full attention to the road to maintain a safe distance from Lassiter. Summer wildfires continued to rage along the northern parts of the county, making his trek all the more risky. He hummed "Danger Zone" to himself as dense clouds of smoke hugged the land, obstructing his visibility and that of those vehicles around him.

Lassiter's sedan had pulled off the road, forcing Shawn to take some evasive maneuvers and hide his bike behind a hedgerow. They had arrived at a non-descript, private storage warehouse with a long driveway. Surrounded by a lingering haze, it appeared to be sole structure for miles on this particular stretch of road. Eerily isolated.

Shawn watched from behind the bushes as Lassiter exited the car and walked to the building's entrance while Officer DeSantos checked the perimeter. Unable to see anything from his current vantage point, Shawn snuck around the backside of the building to find another door.

Perfect, he thought, spotting that the rear door was ajar. He cautiously entered the building, careful to keep himself concealed behind some nearby crates. From the interior, someone was housing numerous wooden crates and boxes that were stacked vertically about eight feet high along the walls of the building. There were narrow halls that led into what Shawn assumed were the smaller separated storage spaces. The building's acoustics were surprisingly good and Shawn was able to eavesdrop on the detectives' conversation from a reasonably safe distance.

"You haven't answered my question yet. Why did you insist that I come here?" Lassiter barked, clearly very annoyed with the younger detective.

"Hang on, Sir. The documents that I mentioned are right over here. I just have to find where I stuck them," Lewis replied. Shawn noticed instantly that his tone of voice seemed wrong. It was frantic and nervous, but there was something oddly contrived to it. His stomach churned as he remembered when he last heard Lewis use that tone.

He heard Lassiter state, "Get a grip, Lewis. No need to panic, just find the documents."

Shawn snuck around the crates, hoping to be able to catch a glimpse of the action. From his new location, he saw Lewis haphazardly toss papers around as he dug through a large cardboard box. Lassiter stood off to the side, looking forever perturbed with the world. His typical stance, Shawn thought wryly. Lewis was sweating, clenching and unclenching his fists. Something's wrong.

Before Shawn could figure out the man's odd behavior, the sound of gunfire erupted outside of the building. Gunfire? Shawn froze, watching the other men reflexively draw their weapons. Lassiter quickly moved to the door and signaled Lewis to follow.

"Don't move," Lewis ordered, turning his gun on the head detective.

Shocked, Lassiter jerked to a stop. "What?" he asked as he turned to face the younger detective.

"Don't move! I mean it!" Shawn heard Lewis yell and he watched the man steadily point his gun at Lassiter. "Drop your gun."

"What the hell is going on, Lewis?"

"Just do it."

Shit. Don't just stand here, Shawn admonished himself, Do something. His heart raced, as he tried to get a grip on the situation. Damn it! He needed something to turn the tables; he needed a plan, a distraction. Without thinking, he pushed on one of the stacks, causing several boxes to unbalance and topple to the floor. The loud crash echoed in the warehouse.

As Shawn moved away from the fallen boxes, he saw that his distraction had worked. In that short time, he could see that Lassiter managed to gain the upper hand over the younger detective. Lassiter stood over a prone Lewis with his gun aimed at the other man. However, his expression morphed from anger to pure surprise when he spotted Shawn.

Lassiter glared at him. "Spencer? What the hell are you doing here?!"

"Um. Helping you out?" Shawn called out hesitantly, as he walked towards the men.

Lassiter scowled, returning his gaze to the other detective. "Spencer, grab his gun. And Lewis, you are under arrest."

Before Lassiter could finish his sentence, another round of shots rang out. Unlike the first time, the shot were coming from within the warehouse. Shawn instantly reacted, ducking and covering his head.

With a shove, Lassiter maneuvered Shawn out of the direct line of fire.

Shawn crouched low to the floor as he tried to get his bearings on the situation. He glanced to the side, quickly noting that Lewis had escaped while Lassiter had moved him out of harm's way. The tall crates had provided some cover from the barrage of shots that had been sent in their direction. Keeping his back flush against the crates, he watched Lassiter return fire.

"Spencer!" the detective shouted. "Call for help."

Shawn nodded, retrieving his phone from his pocket. However, it quickly fumbled out his hand, as a shot struck the crate next to him, coming dangerously close to his shoulder. Shawn swore as he watched the battery half of the phone break off and slid under neighboring crates. Damn piece of crap.

"Um. Can I use your phone?" he shouted to Lassiter above the gunfire.

He couldn't tell if the other man had really heard him or not. It was obvious that the other man was focused on more pressing matters. From the look on the detective's face as he checked his weapon, this firefight was going to be very short. Shawn had become rather proficient in reading Lassiter's facial expressions over the past couple of years. This particular scowl meant low ammo, which didn't bode well for their situation.

There was a sudden lag in the shooting. Probably reloading, Shawn thought bleakly. Lassiter had been conservative with his shots, only taking one or two when he could. Given the sporadic gunfire, it appeared that only one of them was shooting. Why? Nothing about this situation made sense to Shawn. Lassiter and DeSantos had been set up by Lewis and, likely, Brackett. The initial shots came from another gunman (or gunmen), but there was no way to know for certain who was shooting at them now.

Shawn crouched again as couple of bullets ricocheted off the crates near his head, sending shrapnel flying. He quickly turned his head to see if he could get Lassiter's attention and borrow his phone.

What he saw was Lassiter's body sprawled on the floor, rivulets of blood cascading down the man's head and face. He cursed; absolutely convinced that Lassiter was dead.

However, Shawn wasn't given long to think, as another close call galvanized him into action. He stepped over Lassiter's body and grabbed the detective's fallen weapon.

A soft groan from the prone man stopped Shawn in his tracks. He glanced down to see the steady rise and fall of Lassiter's chest. Wounded, not dead. Good. Think, Shawn, think!

He could feel himself panic. Just need a plan. Lay low and get Lassiter help.

His relief was short-lived, as he heard the sound of a gun cocking from close range.

"Drop the gun, Shawn."

"Frank, what the hell?" Shawn asked, turning to look at the gunman standing behind him.

"Do it!" Lewis shouted, pointing his weapon at Shawn's chest.

Pausing briefly, Shawn did as he asked and tossed the gun off to the side.

"He dead?" Lewis tipped his head in the direction of Lassiter's body.

"Not yet," he answered, trying his best to not sound scared shitless.

"Listen, we go way back. I don't want to kill you, Shawn. So, here's your choice."

Shawn snorted. "Choice? Doesn't seem like you gave DeSantos and Lassiter a choice."

"That wasn't me. That was Brackett," Lewis snarled. "Shut up and listen! Do you want to end up like them? Continue to be a prick and I'll shoot you myself."

"So where's the boss now?" Shawn asked.

"He took off. Lassiter winged him."

"Then why not let us go?"

Lewis shook his head. "I have a lot riding on this. I can't leave you out here to interfere."

"So, what then?"

"So, you cooperate and go into that storage room. I just need to buy us time to leave town. Or, I can just shoot you. Your choice."

Shawn wasted time pretending to deliberate on Lewis's options, while he carefully considered his own. Much to his disgust, there was only one viable option that he could see that wouldn't get him killed.

He studied the man before him, and wondered how he could have so completely misjudged his former friend. With a little self-hatred, Shawn realized that his own eagerness to solve this case led them here. He frowned as he considered how disappointed his father was going to be with him.

"Come on. Time's up." Lewis said impatiently, his gun still fixed on Shawn.

"How do I know you won't betray us again?"

"What do your psychic powers tell you?" Lewis sneered.

Shawn sighed. "That I don't have a choice."

"Right. Now, in you go," Lewis said, gesturing with his gun towards an open doorway.

Instead of walking forward, Shawn moved to face the fallen detective. Squatting behind Lassiter, he carefully turned the injured man onto his back.

"What do you think you are doing?" Lewis asked.

"What does it look like?" Shawn spit back. Hooking his arms around the other man's chest, he dragged him over to the door.

"Fine. Suit yourself," Lewis said. Not moving to stop or help Shawn with his task.

Shawn laid Lassiter's body down in the center of the small room. It was maybe ten-by-ten feet, filled with several boxes. One small overhead light. No supplies, no windows, no vents and only one way out.

"Oh, Shawn," Lewis said, drawing the other man from his survey. "I need your cell phones and Lassiter's back-up gun."

Shawn frowned as he moved Lassiter, searching for the man's phone and backup pistol. He paused, phone and gun in his hands. His eyes drifted to the rivulets of bright red blood that streaked down the detective's face. So much blood.

"Come on!" Lewis shouted with renewed impatience.

Shawn turned to face his former friend and realized that he wasn't the same Frank. The Frank he knew had been replaced by some merciless and cold-hearted bastard. Definitely someone that Shawn wanted nothing to do with.

"I need you to call for help," Shawn said quietly.

"What?"

"You heard me." Shawn sighed as he gestured to the fallen detective. "He needs help and I don't know when or if back-up will arrive."

Lewis laughed. "You're kidding right? Just hand everything over Shawn."

"I get that you don't give a crap about him or any of this, but you owe me." Shawn watched the other man's eyes widen with surprise at the statement.

"I owe you? How so?" Lewis asked.

"Kennedy Park. You were suspected of vandalizing that statue. I covered for you."

"We were eleven! Come on, Shawn. Hand them over."

Shawn ignored him and continued, "And you said that you'd owe me. I'm collecting on that. Please, Frank. Please call for help."

Lewis stared at him for several long minutes, clearly mulling over his request. Shawn held himself completely still, afraid that the man might reject his request altogether.

"Okay. For old times' sake, I guess. Give me the phone and the gun." Lewis kept the gun trained on Shawn, as he held out his empty hand.

Shawn quietly watched the other man make the quick 9-1-1 phone call. It was an anonymous tip about suspicious sounds ("like gunfire or fireworks") and activity at the storage facility. It wasn't exactly what Shawn had hoped for, but at least it was something.

"This wasn't how I planned things, Shawn," Lewis offered as his way of an apology before sliding the metal door closed. A loud "click" echoed throughout the tiny room. Shawn walked over to the door to confirm his suspicions. The door was securely locked.

Shit, he thought bleakly as he stared down at the bleeding, unconscious detective. Damn it!

OoOoOoO

Present

Shawn was startled from his reverie by Lassiter's sudden thrashing movements. The detective had been deathly still only moments before. This can't be good. Nightmare? He wondered grimly watching the man's eyelids flutter. Seizure?

He heard Lassiter groan, as he tried to hold the man's head still.

"Easy, man. Everything's okay," he spoke softly.

Lassiter gasped, his eyes bolted open. His body jerked forward as his defense mechanisms suddenly kicked in.

"Hey, easy. It's okay. It's just me."

Shawn saw the bewildered expression spread across the man's pale face. Shock? "Spencer?"

"Yep. Still here," Shawn answered, too tired to tease the detective.

Shawn watched Lassiter blink lethargically, unfocused eyes drifting. Had he been this sluggish before? "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Head hurts," Lassiter responded as small shivers racked his frame.

"Yeah." Shawn nodded, not knowing what else to say.

Lassiter winced, bringing his free hand up to his head. "What happened?"

Shawn sighed; his disappointment grew tenfold with that question. "Don't you remember? Dude, we've been over this before, several times in fact."

Lassiter lay on his side, blinking, but did not offer an answer to Shawn's question.

Growing frustrated, he prompted the wounded man. "Bullet grazed your head, trapped in a warehouse. Sound familiar?"

Lassiter grimaced. "Oh." The answer was soft and weak. Shawn felt his stomach drop at the detective's lack of awareness.

Shawn sighed again. "Well, not to worry. It's not a pleasant story. But I think you should stay awake from now on," he said, noticing that Lassiter was starting to doze off.

"Huh?"

"Stay awake," Shawn ordered.

"Hmm," Lassiter muttered, slowly rubbing at the bandages adorning his head. "Tired. Head hurts. What happened? Was there an accident?"

Shawn glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. Where the hell was their backup? Knowing their luck, the roads had been closed by the fires. Not like they needed another thing to worry about. He just needed to keep Lassiter alert and aware for a bit longer; help would arrive. They just had to wait patiently.

"No, not exactly an accident. More like attempted murder. But that's neither here nor there at the moment," Shawn answered.

He nervously flicked his paper football across the room.

"Oh," Lassiter replied, closing his eyes again.

Shawn nudged Lassiter's shoulder. "Stop that," he said. "You need to stay awake a bit longer. How about a distraction? Hmm. Name that tune? 20 Questions? Or maybe you want to tell me about that woman you went out with?"

Lassiter coughed roughly, his eyes flickering shut. Shawn decided to try another direction.

"Lassie, are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay, Lassie? You've been hit by, you've been struck by a smooth criminal," Shawn sang out, loudly clapping his hands.

Groaning, Lassiter said, "Spencer! Shut up. I don't know how Guster puts up with you. Man must be a saint."

Shawn smiled at Lassiter's tone. About time his personality returned. For perhaps the first time, he was actually thrilled to hear an insult from the detective.

"Gus isn't a saint. Trust me. So, are you going to stay awake or will I have to sing another song?"

"I'll try. Can I ask you a question?" Lassiter asked, sounding more alert.

"You just did."

"Spencer." Lassiter warned, sharp hints of irritation tinging his tone.

"Ok, shoot." Shawn grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, sorry, bad choice of words; I mean, ask way."

"Why didn't you become a cop?" the detective asked

"You picked now of all times to want to bond?"

"I'm curious. You have some good deductive skills. Why didn't you follow in your father's footsteps?"

Shawn sighed irritably, sending another paper football flying across the room. Of all of the questions, he asks that? Why not ask if I'm really a psychic? At least, I know how to answer that one.

"I don't know. For as long as I can remember, he trained me to be a cop," Shawn answered, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to block out the memories.

He took a deep breath before he continued, "Every waking moment, there was training. My father was obsessed with the idea of his only son going off to the academy, graduating, and becoming a detective. The idea of me becoming a cop became more important to him than anything that I wanted. So, as long as it was important to him, I didn't want to have anything to do with it. Or you know something like that."

Lassiter nodded. "Both of you are too stubborn. Your father's a good man, a good cop."

Shawn laughed. "I think your brain has been rattled around too much today. My father's a control freak."

"True, but you're lucky to have him."

"Lucky? You've met the man. Some luck," he grumbled.

"Yes, lucky. My family wasn't what you'd call close. My father wasn't around much and my mother wasn't all that hands on. But she did the best she could with all 5 of us." Shawn heard a note of resignation in the other man's voice.

Okay. Time for a new topic, he thought. Shawn wasn't comfortable with the direction that the conversation was heading in. Too personal. Too serious. Too much of an Oprah moment. There were topics better left untouched.

Clearing his throat, he asked, "How about you? What made you decide to become a cop? Family tradition? Long line of Lassies that have served and protected?"

"No. My father was an insurance salesman."

"Then why?"

"Don't know, just something that I had always wanted to do, ever since I was a child."

Shawn sighed, at a rare loss for words. He never considered himself lucky to have Henry Spencer as his father, not that he had really considered it much. He tried to imagine a young Lassiter, but couldn't get past the stern, rigid man. He wondered how much of Lassiter's childhood had influenced the man's temperament and lack of humor.

"Why are we still here?" Lassiter asked, pulling Shawn away from his thoughts.

"Huh?"

"Back-up's coming right? Or was I dreaming that?"

"No, no. They're on their way."

"Good," Lassiter mumbled softly. "Not feeling well."

Surprised by the admission, Shawn turned his body to get a better view of the detective.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you going to be sick again?"

"Don't know. My head hurts more," Lassiter gasped, squeezing his eyes shut.

Shawn scrutinized the detective, noticing the fine tremors that had racked the man's frame had increased. His face was now a chalky white and beads of sweat mixed with the patches of dried blood.

"You might be going into shock. Let me prop up you legs," Shawn said, maneuvering Lassiter's head onto the makeshift sweatshirt pillow.

He stood to retrieve a small box for Lassiter's legs. Before he was able to move two feet, the sounds of retching filled the room again. Shawn quickly spun around to grab anything he could find to contain the mess. There was no need for it; the detective's stomach was empty. He watched helplessly as Lassiter weakly fought against his mutinous body.

As Lassiter choked, Shawn prayed for assistance to arrive. He had some first aid training, but this was significantly out of his league. The man needed a hospital and a neurologist. The strain of the head wound was extreme and Shawn was beginning to fear that it was more than a simple concussion.

The bout of dry heaves ended as quickly as they started and the detective's labored breaths filled the room.

"Wish I could offer you something to drink," Shawn said mildly. "Never did get the chance to pick up that pineapple smoothie."

Lassiter swallowed and blinked the moisture from his eyes. "Never had one."

"Really? I'll have to introduce you to their yummy deliciousness."

"No," Lassiter slurred as his eyes closed.

"Hey, you need to stay awake," Shawn called, suddenly very nervous. "You said that you'd try."

Lassiter exhaled slowly. "Can't. You tried your best, Shawn."

Shawn watched as the detective fell still once more. The man's last words deeply disturbed him. No, not last words. Shawn poked and prodded, but it was no use. Lassiter had lost consciousness once again, not responding to anything that Shawn did. Coma? Shawn despaired. Tried your best, Shawn. What the hell did that mean?

Shawn angrily moved from his position. There was nothing he could do and the feeling of helplessness settled into the pit of his stomach. Cursing their luck, he forced himself to stop pacing and sit down next to Lassiter.

Lassiter's breaths were slow and shallow, and Shawn knew that the hours being locked in this room might have doomed him. For the first time, he had wished that he truly was the psychic that he had pretended to be. As foolish as his thoughts were, he wanted the comfort of knowing if Lassiter would recover or merely drift further away.

TBC

A/N: Ooo. Will help arrive in time? Will the boys ever get out?

A cookie for anyone that can guess that 15 letter word in the crossword puzzle. They are dark chocolate and mint and so very yummy!