Disclaimer: I don’t own Psych, though I wish I did lol! I’m just having some fun with its characters.

Chapter 1: Now You See Him…Now You Don’t

Henry stood in the rain nervously watching as his only son came dangerously close to the river’s edge. They were both soaked and covered with mud; his clothes were undoubtedly ruined with no chance of salvation despite the rain slicker that was supposed to be helping. Shawn would probably celebrate the death of one of his father’s blindingly bold Hawaiian shirts after this was all over with anyway.

He had almost keeled over when the kid started running towards the river claiming that he could see something and the proof they needed to arrest Adrian Tompkins for the murder of 6 women over the last 7 months lay near the swelling flood waters. Before Lassiter, O’Hara, or himself could even open their mouths to protest Shawn was disappearing into the darkness.

Moments later he was blindsided and smacked in the head with a clump of uncoiling rope, before his son’s muffled shout of “Dad catch!” came following soon after. He grumbled at the late warning, but was silently thankful his son was being smart and had given them a tow line in case he might lose his footing on the already unstable ground. At least the kid still remembered some of the safety procedures he had taught him despite the fact he usually threw all caution to the wind.

Shawn was still being stupid; he should be waiting on the rest of the policemen and rescue workers to arrive on the scene. Honestly what the hell was he doing here anyway, he still didn’t know how he managed to get sucked into one his son’s investigations or what he more affectionately calls ‘shenanigans’ once again, but he had.

Just an hour before they had been collecting the body of the sixth victim, everyone was angry and discouraged that the murderer had gotten the best of them again. He could see the frustration of failure and regret reflected in his son’s eyes, before moments later he was bounding off towards his dads pick-up truck, shaking the keys in the air while shouting he had ‘divined’ something. His claims that he knew where to find the murder weapon and that it would be enough to convict their lead suspect who had been slipping through the cracks for weeks now, was enough to have Lassiter, and O’Hara following in pursuit.

After patting his jean pockets only to reveal the keys in his son’s hand were indeed his, Henry was quick to follow a few muttered curses passing through his lips.

Minutes later they were rushing towards an unknown destination in the middle of a storm leaving the rest of the SBPD to try and process the rapidly deteriorating crime scene behind them.

Now he stood there his heart constricting painfully with every slip and miss-step his son would make. Instinctively he gripped the rope that was wrapped around his older, but steady frame tighter. If Shawn was to fall over the river’s edge, he would be his lifeline, his son’s only anchor to the shore. He reminded himself to breathe once again, it was nights like these that his mind mulled over the dangers of his son’s chosen career, and what the hell was he as a father thinking when he had wanted his son to take after him. Yeah, Shawn hadn’t become a cop, but he might as well have, and one day he wondered if he’d live to regret what he’d done.

A soft muttered curse slipped past the older man’s parted lips just as the heavens began to open up and release their wrath in a heavier outpouring than before. He let his hand rise and scrub at his face growling as the current weather further distorted the view he had of his only child. He was caught unaware and unprepared when the line suddenly went rigid with a painful snap, jerking his body foreword, his feet scrambling to regain their footing. He held the rope tighter, leaning back, and pushing against his heels as he tried to back-up slowly. His face was tightly scrunched from strain, teeth painfully gritting together.

“Carlton help him!” he heard the young female detective scream, as she radioed for more back-up support.

An immense relief came with the hands that reached out of nowhere and gripped the rope tightly, taking some of the burden from him.

“We’ll get him Henry...” He heard Lassiter grit out. “…we won’t let go.” The older man nodded in reply, afraid that the words he wanted to say wouldn’t come out. Several more men had just arrived on the scene moments earlier, some of them were from the SBPD, and some were volunteers from local fire departments. Within seconds all able bodied men were taking their places along the length of the rope.

When he felt a large portion of strain release him, he took the time to crack his eyes open long enough to risk a glance, seeing Lassiter directly behind him along 5 other men clad in rain slickers and rubber boots.

The head detective gave him a curt nod before shouting orders to the men behind them. “Everybody pull!”

Sirens were echoing in the distance signaling that back-up was on its way, and detective O’Hara was positioning one of the flood lights to shine some light on the area in front of them.

Henry flicked his gaze over to the spot where he had just seen the faded silhouette of his son.  Only he wasn’t there, and the line Shawn was connected to was currently disappearing into the raging flood waters, his son’s body somewhere below the surface. He suddenly stopped breathing, he felt numb, and for moment in time he could have sworn his heart had ceased its beating.

Blinking away the rain from his lashes, he shouted to the men around him to keep pulling. Step by step they backed-up trudging and slipping in the mud. For every foot they gained the river would tug them forward two. It was a vicious battle of tug-of-war, man vs. nature, and they were losing slowly. With every passing moment his voice became more desperate as he and Lassiter both shouted their instructions.

The loud warning cry of a young officer pierced his ears, and the older man watched on in horror as a downed tree that was being tossed in the rapids quickly approached the place where his son had just broke surface and was currently struggling to stay above the rapids. All the men braced for impact and each gasped as the force of the tree jerked the line from their fingers, stripping flesh, and sending several men crashing to the ground. With the loss of support Henry was quickly pulled forward, unable to hold his ground but unwilling to give up. His teeth were grinding together almost painfully, a deep guttural groan vibrated in his throat. His sneakers slipped on the slick earth almost refusing to stay rooted beneath him. Through cracked eyelids he watched the river’s edge draw closer, and a glimmer of fear flashed in his eyes before it was quickly repressed beneath his growing determination.

“I need some more help here!” he yelled over his shoulder, praying more men would get there soon.

Lassiter’s hands were on shoulders once again. In seconds the rest of the officers and workers gathered the rope up in their tired grasps and rushed to regain their previous positions.  

It grew more and more apparent that there wasn’t enough man power, nor energy left to cease their steady descent. Acknowledging that the Civilian who was connected to the rope was minutes away from being pulled into the rapids as well, the leader who was heading over the rescue workers made the difficult call everyone else didn’t want to make. 

A young rookie firefighter appeared in front of Henry, beams of light reflecting off the blade that rested in his hand.

“No-!” The elder Spencer shouted, shooting a look of panic at the younger man. “No, we can still hold it; back up is on its way!”

Lassiter’s startled gasp along with a “Don’t do it kid.” sounded so close to his ear he could hear the tremble in the head detective’s voice.

Blue depths brimming with solemn sympathy locked with Henrys distraught brown ones for a few seconds before the contact was broken as they were jerked violently by more debris catching in the line, sending them all stumbling forward their descent now continuing all the men slowly being dragged through the mud towards the edge.

“Cut the line Anders, cut it now!”

The young man nodded his understanding, and though stumbling brought the blades edge to the underside of the rope.

“Don’t!” Henry hissed threateningly. “Don’t do it…please!”

“Anders!” the men continued to shout.

Henry could see the look that passed over the kids face clearly, it was apologetic and it was directed at him the obviously distraught Father.

“No…” he breathed hoarsely.

Anders guiltily averted his gaze to the line before him “I…I’m so sorry” he murmured, pulling the knife across the rope in one swift stroke. Almost instantly the force that had been pulling them was broken, sending all the team crashing painfully to the ground in defeat.

Henry felt as if his whole life had just collapsed with him. A loud ringing filled his ears as he tried to pull himself onto trembling legs. Foreign hands tried to assist him, tugging his arms as they attempted to guide him back towards safer ground. Angrily he pushed them away, ignoring their apologies and condolences.

He tried to get past them and race down the shoreline in pursuit of his son, but Lassiter’s strong arms held him at bay. “Mr. Spencer, Henry, I’m sorry… I’m so sorry!” he kept repeating the apology like it would make everything better, but the younger man’s voice sounded as hollow and defeated as he felt.

He didn’t have time for this, and in an instant his anger was mounting. The patriarch clinched his fist, his knuckles turning white as blood was refused passage. He had just been released from a burden that he didn’t wish to be freed from, and there was going to be hell to pay. Like a volcano on the verge of eruption he exploded with a surge of renewed strength.

“Let me go!” he screamed, his body twisting loose, but Lassiter’s hands quickly tried to regain their hold. ‘Consequences be damned.’ he growled angrily to himself as his balled fist and delivered a strong right hook to the Head Detectives jaw.

It was rash, but it had the desired effects. Once freed, he rushed forward gathering a gear bag and a discarded search light, and then fueled by adrenaline he disappeared into the shadows. The shouts that followed after him, were ignored, each falling upon his deaf ears. The only voice that he could hear at that moment was his own and it was screaming his son’s name.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Psych, I’m just having some nonprofit fun with its characters!

A/N: A big thanks to my beta Olivia94 for all her help. Without her I wouldn’t have been able to update so fast J

CHAPTER 2: Rivers, and rapids, and flare guns ohhh my!

Shawn’s fingers frantically clawed at the boulder he found himself clinging to. His hands were bleeding and raw from desperately grasping at the logs and debris he had passed on his way. He felt his hold giving way—the slick moss and exhaustion weakening his grasp. He slipped lower, speeding rapids beating furiously at his body. The young man sputtered and choked as several waves swept over his head, robbing him of air and filling his lungs with thick muddy water.

The fake Psychic could barely hear a distant voice shouting desperately over the roaring of the waves. The pleas faded as quickly as they had come when a crack of thunder rumbled across the skies, followed by more continuous rain that had let up for what seemed like only a few minutes over the last two hours. Shawn continued to fight the pounding water that was beating him down and tried to keep his head above the surface. He knew he was failing miserably as his grasp faltered and, with the next crashing wave, he found himself submerged and torn from the bolder violently without warning or a breath.

The currents tossed his body around, tumbling as he thrashed and kicked desperately trying to reach air. He never found the surface—only the cold depths of darkness as his head struck a drifting log. His arms stilled and he ceased his battle, thus allowing the river to take his limp form without struggle.    

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Shawn!” Henry shouted. The beam of his search light caught the back of his son’s head as he fought to remain above water, his arms holding the bolder he was pressed so tightly against.

“Shawn!” he called again “Hold on I’m going to figure out a way to get to you! I’m coming!” He only prayed that his son could hear his voice, and he could know he was there, he was not alone, and that he hadn’t given up on saving him. He reluctantly pulled the light off his son to scan the surrounding area in hopes to find a way to rescue the kid. His heart fell as he realized this part of the bank was barren—no sign of a strong anchor in sight. Flicking the light back to his son, he watched him slip slowly. His mind was racing, his heart pounding in his chest, pumping adrenaline through his veins. Hesitantly he flashed the light ahead of them, and saw a felled tree lying half-in-half-out of the water. It was the only chance that he could see, and with one glance back at Shawn, he sprinted forward.

He cursed the returning rain. He had one opportunity and, with that knowledge, he uttered several prayers towards Heaven as he dropped his gear safely by the tree line, and made his way back to the bank. The older man pulled himself up onto the massive trunk, taking a deep breath as he began to inch forward nervously, but determined none-the-less. This was his son, this was his son he kept unnecessarily reminding himself. The search light was awkwardly clamped between his teeth as he used both hands to steady himself.  Once in position, he moved to grasp the light and flashed the beam towards the bolder in time to see his son washed back into the rapids. A breath hitched painfully in his throat as soon as Shawn’s head disappeared below the surface and he flicked his eyes wildly in a frantic attempt to spot him again.

“Shawn!” he shouted futilely—his name was the only word that his lips could utter. Relief came in the form of a hand breaking the surface. It was gone almost instantly, but that was all he needed. He knew approximately where his son was, and he braced himself for the battle that was rapidly approaching. This time though, he would not lose.

It felt to him as if time itself was standing still: a million and one thoughts ran through his mind in those brief seconds. Memories of strange cases, beer and late night movies, fights, and goofy grins plagued him unmercifully, reminding him of what he had to lose. His son’s mischief laden eyes burned themselves in his mind’s eye, and he felt himself grip the tree tighter with his legs to lock them in place. He blinked once, then twice, and then in one powerful movement his body leaned out towards his objective. His finger tips brushed his son’s chilled body before encircling his wrist. This time he didn’t underestimate the current.

He gasped at the force at which the river was trying to rip Shawn from him. His fingers struggled to keep a firm grip on the slick surface of his son’s skin.

“Hold on kid” he choked out, “I’ve got you and I’m not letting go!”

He adjusted his hold on the branch behind him and sucked in a shuttering breath as he pulled back, attempting to lift the young man from the rapids. He felt a pang of concern when he noticed that Shawn made no effort to assist him. His body was a dead weight, his fingers relaxed and made no attempt to hold onto his father’s hand. Pushing his fear aside, he closed his eyes tight and heaved again. His brow furrowed in pain, and he let out a desperate shout as he felt things giving way deep within his body. He clenched his teeth together and grunted from the exertion. He felt as if he was being torn apart by the surrounding elements. His muscles were shaking from the strain. Just when he thought he was at the end of his resistance, the river grudgingly released its hold and Henry hefted his son up onto the tree trunk slowly. He clutched him to his chest, breathing heavily, worry and concern reflected in his weary eyes. He scanned the kid’s face, noting the bluish tinge to his lips and the blood that began streaming down his hairline and down the soft curves of his face. Two unsteady fingers pressed against the length of his neck, and the patriarch’s heart fell when he felt nothing against the tips. Panic set in just as the tree they were perched on jerked and shifted in the water. Several of the braches groaned as the new position strained and fractured them. The search light toppled in the water despite his desperate attempt to grab it, leaving them in total darkness.

“Shit!” he hissed, pulling his knees beneath him. He began his journey towards the shore, slowly sliding back a few feet before pulling his precious cargo towards him as he did so. He repeated the movement several times, grimacing as the bark dug into the skin of his legs, cutting painfully. He flinched at every slight tremor that vibrated in the unstable trunk they found themselves atop. It wasn’t until he had placed his feet shakily on the ground that he allowed himself to truly breathe.

Immediately he dropped ungracefully into the mud. Laying his boy’s body flat, he tilted the kid’s head up before leaning down to cover Shawn’s mouth with his, all awkwardness of the sensation being pushed aside. His breath pushed forcefully into the younger man’s lungs and then he rose up, entwining his fingers. “Come on son!” He grunted out between compressions. “Don’t you dare die on me!”

Wiping the rain off his face, he once again breathed for him, continuing the CPR for several cycles. All the while he was praying to God not to take his only son from him—pleading and bargaining with him to spare the boy.  He removed his mouth from Shawn’s just as his body convulsed from beneath him. Shawn sputtered and choked as muddy water was expelled from his aching lungs. An enormous weight lifted off Henry’s shoulders at that moment and he thanked God for answering his pleas. He pulled Shawn up and turned him into the recovery position, listening to him cough and suck in several shuttering breaths.

“I’ve got you kid. I’ve got you.” He whispered as much to himself, as to his son. “I’ve got you.”

“D…dad?” Shawn gasped weakly, his hands frantically searching for the source of the voice, though coming up empty. Henry, sensing his fear, pulled his son into his arms “I’m right here Shawn.” He reassured him “I’ve got to move us further from the edge of the river though, ok?”

A nod against his chest was all he received as an answer, but it was enough. Standing carefully, he slipped his arms under the younger man’s armpits and proceeded to half carry, half drag him cautiously backwards. He muttered a curse as his feet slipped and he almost stumbled over the rocks that lay hidden in the darkness.

He took shelter beneath a tree and lowered the rest of Shawn’s body down on the surrounding grasses before feeling around for his discarded gear. A surge of relief fell upon him at finding the bag soaked but otherwise unharmed.

“Kid, are you still with me?”

“…”

“Shawn?”

With a gentle tap to his son’s cheek he finally received a groan in response. “You’ve got to stay awake kid: you’ve probably got a concussion.”

“I…I’m…” a groan interrupted his complaint and he shifted lightly in his arms. “Hurt’s” he hissed.

“I’m sorry, I know.” Henry murmured.

Henry reached in his pack and grasped blindly for the flare gun he knew was there. When he found it he looked up and, raising it into the air, pulled the trigger. He watched it race toward the heavens, flashing bright despite the downpour, before fizzling out into nothing again.

“Is anyone… coming for us?” Shawn asked softly.

“Yeah they are.” He replied, giving a reassuring smile that he knew the kid couldn’t see.  He wanted to believe that he wasn’t lying to his son. He preferred to think of it as faith. He was choosing to believe that someone from the SBPD would see the signal and come with the help they so desperately needed.

Shawn trembled against him, and the older man heard himself once again cursing the cold rain that continued to fall. Slowly he shrugged off his tattered rain slicker and placed it over their heads in an attempt to shield their faces from the falling precipitation. Henry clutched his son tighter, thanking God for the heartbeat that was drumming against his own. One of his hands slipped into the wet disheveled locks and guided Shawn’s head over to come to rest in the crook of his neck—allowing his cheek to rest carefully on the young man’s crown. He sat quietly a moment, willing his body heat to warm his son’s chilled skin.

“It won’t be long” he encouraged “just stay with me a little longer.”

When no response came and his efforts to awake the boy failed, he resigned to the fact that unconsciousness had claimed his son. The fear he had felt earlier began to return in small waves of worry. “It’s ok Shawnie, you rest. When you wake up you’ll be dry and warm, I promise.”

His words fell on deaf ears, yet he continued to make his son promises. Moments later he allowed himself to emotionally mourn what he had almost lost, and also take in the relief of having his child still with him.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Psych. I never have, and alas, I never will.

A/N: Thank you Olivia94. You have saved me once again from my run-on sentence addiction lol! You’re the best!

Chapter 3: Lassie: Search party leader extraordinaire

Detective Lassiter was now leading the rescue team in search of Henry, who they were presuming had launched the flare that had caught Officer Buzz McNabb’s attention. Their flashlights were sweeping the bank in search of the older man—fully expecting to find him sitting along the tree line, mourning the death of his son. The younger man didn’t guilt the guy for decking him; he supposed that had he been in a similar situation he would have done the same. A son is a son.

Hell, he hadn’t wanted to see Spencer get killed. He didn’t necessarily like the moron, but he didn’t hate him either. When the rope was cut his own heart had seemed to stop, he could hear his partner’s cry of despair echoing in his ears. He had felt like a failure: a civilian had died on his watch, and it wasn’t just an empty face, it was Spencer. He knew he would be haunted by that goofy grin for the rest of his life.

Now, as they were moving along the bank at a steady—yet cautious—pace, he tried to keep his thoughts from lying on the younger man. Instead he focused on the task at hand: finding the kid’s distraught father. A bright yellow mass several yards ahead caught the detective’s attention. The color was a stark contrast to all the dark earthy shades surrounding them. “Spencer!” he called “Henry!”

There was no response, but he could distinctly see the outline of the rain slicker previously worn by the other man. Judging by the shouts behind him the other officers could see the same thing, and they picked up their pace carefully.

When they got closer he held up his hand, wanting to approach the older man alone. “Henry?” he calmly called. He could see the man huddled under a nearby tree his coat resting over his slouched form. It wasn’t till he had gotten within a few feet of the patriarch that he could see two sets of feet jutting out of the mass. “Sweet lady justice!” he hissed, closing the space between them in seconds. When he pulled the coat back, the haunted eyes of Henry Spencer were looking straight back at him.

“He’s not shaking anymore.” He whispered hoarsely, “I think he’s in shock: hypothermia or something.”

Looking down he saw a familiar form nestled tightly into the father’s body, as if by sheer will alone the dad could keep his son warm. The pale skin of the young man made the detective assume they were too late. He let his shaking hand press two fingers against the chilled skin of their lead psychic and he sighed in relief—the pulse was slow, but it was there.  Standing up he turned and called to the men to follow, and motioned to the paramedics they had brought along to hurry.

In moments Henry was being pried from his son’s form with little to no fight. Carlton believed that to be the result of exhaustion and shock on the older man’s part more than him simply being compliant. Spencer men didn’t just cooperate. Lassiter glanced over at Shawn, who was being placed on a backboard, a brace currently snapping into place around his neck. Soon they would all be making their trek back to where an awaiting ambulance could take the kid to get the help he needed.

Lassiter kneeled and placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder, though Henry only had eyes for his son. “Mr. Spencer, we’re almost ready to head out, do you think you can walk?” Henry sighed and looked up with an expression that ranged from exhaustion to ‘Ah Crap.’

“I don’t really have the choice now do I detective.” He said more as a statement than a question.

“Not really Henry, but I need to know if you’re hurt.” Though Lassiter couldn’t see any obvious injuries, the man’s eyes held obvious signs of pain.  Whether it was from physical or emotional pain remained unseen.

“I feel like I was just ripped in half—but I’m not a wuss.”

Carlton snorted “You’re not superman either.” Lassiter had planned to say more but the team was already looking at him for permission to head back into the direction they had originally come from. With a quick nod they began to move.

Looking back at Henry, the younger man offered him a hand up. Lassiter was almost thankful when his gesture was not ignored, but accepted gratefully. Helping the elder Spencer to his feet was quite the task. Despite his words earlier it was very clear the night’s events had taken a toll on the other man’s body. Heck, they were all tired. He himself felt like he had been involved in a hit and run.

“I’ll help you out Henry. Just hold on to me and we’ll take it slow and steady.” He encouraged.

“Just not too slow: I need to keep up with my son.”

Lassiter nodded in agreement. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry; it’ll take them a while to get him safely across this terrain.”

Henry hesitantly placed his arms around the younger man’s shoulders, and, with a shaky breath, started to move forward, trying to ignore the multiple protests coming from his body.

“You haven’t told me how you found Shawn.”

Even in the dim beams of light coming from the flashlights and lanterns Lassiter could see the older man’s features clamming up.

“No. I haven’t.” The response was curt and final—Lassiter knew that he’d have to wait till later to get an explanation. He didn’t blame him really; judging by the look on his face when they had just arrived, a lot had transpired since the older man had decked him, leaving him flat on his back in a mud puddle less than an hour ago.

Carlton felt the man stumble slightly, and he reached around to grasp Spencer’s waist. God he needed a beer. Or maybe a scotch. Hell, he’d take a bottle of whiskey. After this was over he was going to get the first thing he could and drown himself in it. He almost turned a shade lighter at the word drown—maybe he’d just go to bed.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Psych. I never have, and alas, I never will.

A/N: Thank you Olivia94. You have saved me once again from my run-on sentence addiction lol! You’re the best!

Chapter 4: If Waiting is a game, then I don’t want to play

Thirty minutes later they were rounding the bend, bright floodlights fixated on the group that were followed by shouts and rushing bodies. New men were taking the burden of carrying the stretcher, and hands were pulling the elder Spencer away from the head detective. Nonsensical medical jargon was being spouted left and right, while Juliet was in his face asking a million questions, and Chief Vick was coming toward him with a million of her own. Closing his eyes, Lassiter just let the events transpiring around him fade. He sat down with a thud against the bumper of the nearest patrol car, quickly waving in a shooing manner at his partner to get her out of his face.

The headache that had been building was now pounding away at his sanity, and he wished to God that everyone would just leave him alone.

He felt a gentle, but authoritative, squeeze on his shoulder and looked up into the chief’s concerned, understanding gaze. “You can tell me about it later in your report detective. Go home, wash up, and get some rest.” Responding with a nod he stood, quietly brushing past his partner as he went, and headed for his Crown Vic. Getting in, he sat down with a sigh. He looked out the window in time to see the elder Spencer being helped into the back of his son’s bus, closing the door’s behind him. “Ah hell” he muttered, starting his car. He flashed his lights at his partner who quickly ran up to the side and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Yes Carlton?” Juliet inquired. Without a word he watched the ambulance roar to life. He breathed in deeply, turned on his siren, threw the gear into drive, and stomped down hard on the gas. “Carlton!” his partner hissed as she was thrown back against the seat. But he said nothing, just smirked.

As the ambulance raced towards the hospital, so did they.

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Lassiter was sitting quietly in the waiting room with his partner, who was now entertaining a frantic Gus who had arrived a few minutes earlier. The two were pacing and talking, and from his position he could have sworn he saw all the color drain from the younger man’s features once or twice in that short amount of time. Juliet was obviously bringing Guster up to speed on the night’s events; he had been blissfully unaware while he was on a date with his phone deliberately turned off. He had wanted to ignore any attempts Shawn might make to gull him into leaving early. It wasn’t until he returned to his apartment and listened to his voice mail that he had even known anything had gone awry. He hadn’t even heard about the sixth murder yet.

Getting up, the detective made his way quietly down the hall—the room’s two other inhabitants not even noticing his exit. When Lassiter reached the nurses’ station he asked for an update just as he had an hour before. He was shot down like he had been all the other times, but a fellow had to try. Nodding in frustration, he began to walk away until a hand patted his shoulder.

“Let’s go get some coffee while we wait, Detective.”

Carlton turned sharply to look at Mr. Spencer who stood there clad in blue scrubs with his left arm in a sling, wearing a haggard expression on his face.

“Henry, what are you doing out here?”

“I’m not dying Carlton; they released me.”

He eyed the man skeptically before nodding “You ok though?” 

“I’ve had worse when I was on the force.” 

The response was so cryptic Lassiter assumed that was all to be said—that is, until Henry continued. “Pulled some muscles here and there, tore one in my shoulder. Scratches and bruises out the wazoo. A few stitches, some happy pills and half an hour under a heating blanket and I’m fine.”

The younger man snorted “Yeah you look it.” He said sarcastically. “What you need is some rest.” 

“At least I’ve had a shower and was able to change. You look like an extra from Swamp Thing.” Carlton couldn’t argue, so he just grunted in agreement.

“Besides, I’m not doing anything until one of these yahoos quit giving me the run around and tell me how my son is.” Looking over at the young detective Henry eyed him suspiciously. “Speaking of rest, why are you here and not at home, washing the night off you?”

“I had a few loose ends to tie up.” He sputtered, quickly beginning his trek over to the coffee machine.

“I was on the force. I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were Henry.”

“I can read emotions in peoples’ eyes too you know. You’re worried about my kid.”

Lassiter paused momentarily, looking absolutely scandalized. “I am not!”

Henry smiled and passed the younger man to get his coffee first. “Whatever you say, Detective.”

“God I’ve said it before, but you two are exactly the same!” He hissed.

Henry smirked but otherwise ignored the comment. Lassiter, on the other hand, was still defending himself.

“He is a colleague—an unwanted one sure, but—” 

“Carlton” the older man interrupted.

“Yes, Mr. Spencer?”

“Thanks.”

The younger man looked confused a moment, but caught on quickly. “It’s my job.”

“You helped to get Shawn back here for treatment, so I still say thanks. And about the jaw…I’m sorry.”

Lassiter had all most forgotten about getting decked by the older man.

“You thought you had just lost your son. You were trying to save him, and we were holding you back.”

“Still. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“What for?” Henry asked incredulously.

“For giving up after the rope was cut, for just assuming Spencer was dead, for not following after.”

“You still came.”

“Only because McNabb saw the flare you shot off.”

“Remind me to thank Officer McNabb later then.”

Carlton nodded and looked towards the doctor who was coming towards them. ‘Thank God’ he thought—this conversation was beyond awkward. Was he having a moment with Spencer’s dad? A slight shiver went down his spine, and the detective could tell the other man was also relieved for the interruption.

“Mr. Spencer, I just got back from checking up on your son—like I said I would. He’s under the care of Dr. Cliffton, who will be up to tell you more once he’s free.”

“How’s Shawn?”

“He took a pretty hefty blow to the head, giving him a grade two concussion. There’s a hairline stress fracture in his right wrist which, according to the account that you gave us on the incident, was presumed to have been caused when you where fighting to pull him out of the water.”

Henry gave a nod of understanding and motioned for the man to continue.

“Your son had multiple contusions and lacerations caused by other floating debris and rocks. His wounds have been cleaned and he was given a tetanus shot just in case—just as you were. The worst was caused by the rope that was tied around his waist—the force must have been unbelievably fierce to cause it to cut through his clothing the way it did. They had to actually remove some pieces that had embedded themselves in his abdomen. It took a lot of stitches and he’ll have some visible scarring in places, but it will heal, as will the two fractures he has to the second and third ribs.”

“Did I cause those?” Henry interrupted quietly, and Lassiter looked over at the other man, shocked.

“No, Mr. Spencer. From your account of the CPR and the location of the bruising, the fractures were caused by some other source when he was still submerged in the river.”

“CPR?” The detective inquired.

“He wasn’t breathing when I pulled him out.” Henry muttered, looking away from the detective and back at the doctor. “He was ice cold when they brought him in.”

Nodding the Doctor agreed. “He was already suffering from hypothermia. You got him to us in time, but he’s going to be in ICU a while until Dr. Cliffton is satisfied that his body is able to sustain its temperature on its own. Your son’s body was already starting to shut down by the time he arrived. His breathing was shallow and they had to put him on a respirator along with giving him intravenous heated saline. Your son is still struggling, but everything we can see indicates that he’ll be able to recover from this—as long as no complications arise. We’ll watch him over the rest of the night and maybe we can remove the respirator sometime tomorrow. Where we go from there we’ll have to see.”

“Can I see him?”

“I can allow you to see him for a few minutes, but only you.”

Henry looked back a Lassiter and the younger man motioned for him to leave “Go see your kid Spencer. I’ll go tell O’Hara and Guster the news, and then I’m going home to clean up and sleep.”

“You’ll be by tomorrow?”

“Sure…just…don’t tell your spawn I came.”

Henry smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it; your secret’s safe with me.” 

Disclaimer: I don’t own Psych. I never have, and alas, I never will.

A/N: Thank you Olivia94. You have saved me once again from my run-on sentence addiction lol! You’re the best!

Chapter 5: Rest in peace…in a hospital-not likely

Henry paused just outside the curtain partitioning around his sons bed. Slowly he eased his way in keeping his eyes on the tile floor as he made his way over to the side of the bed. A nurse had set a plastic chair inside for him to sit on, and in a few minutes he planned to do just that.

He tore his gaze from the floor to his son’s feet, slowly letting his eyes scour over the form of his son. He took stock of everything he could see, and his imagination conjured up images of what he couldn’t.

His eyes reached Shawn’s chest, but he hesitated before looking at his son’s face. He hated the way the respirator consumed his son’s features, and the hiss it emitted as it helped him breathe made his skin crawl, but he was breathing. That’s all that really mattered in the end. The heart monitor beeped with every beat of his son’s heart. His boy was alive, and for that he was eternally thankful.  

He lifted his non-restricted hand to brush a few strands of mussed hair off his son’s face, careful of the angry looking bruise with cuts running through it on his temple.

“Ah, kid,” he whispered, “you scared the life out of me. I probably lost another ten to fifteen years on this incident alone.”

He reached over to pull the chair close to the bed and let out a heavy sigh as he let his body sink down and relax into the conforms of the plastic. Slowly, he grabbed his son’s uninjured hand and began to gently stroke his fingers. He made a mental note on how much warmer his skin felt compared to the last time he had touched the kid. Beside the river, he was cold to the touch. It had felt like he was holding a corpse, not his child.

“I can’t lose you, kid,” he murmured, shaking the memory from his mind. “I never want to lose you. I don’t think I could bear it if I did.” 

Thirty minutes later, a nurse apologetically told him visiting hours were over. He didn’t go home though. He was too tired to make his way across town. Instead, he found a decent couch in a nearby waiting area, lay down, and fell asleep.

Sometime later he would wake up in a cold sweat with several other people in the room staring at him strangely. This would alert him to the fact that the shout in his dream must have passed over into reality. Awkwardly excusing himself, he would go find his son’s room once again, sneaking  in, uttering the words “consequences be damned” for the second time in a twenty-four hour period. There he would fall asleep, holding his son’s hand, and in the quiet stillness next to his son, he wouldn’t dream again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mr. Spencer?”

Henry started awake, and then hissed as the sudden movement awoke aches that were lying peacefully dormant until now.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have quite the crick in your back from sleeping in that chair.”

“I’ve got aches in more places than my back, Doc.”

Dr. Wesley gave him a look of sympathy. “Brenda the night nurse said you sneaked back in a few hours ago, and she couldn’t bear to make you leave again. She’s an old softy.”

“I’m glad she was on duty then.”

“Why don’t you go down to the cafeteria for some breakfast while we perform some tests? We need to see if young Shawn here can have the respirator removed.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s almost 9:30. Brenda says she thinks you’ve been asleep for at least five hours.”

“Sounds about right. When can I come back up?”

“Let’s just say no sooner than an hour, and maybe when you return your son will be breathing on his own accord.”

Henry nodded while easing himself out of the chair and slowly slipped out of the curtain, bumping into two nurses as he did. The younger one brushed passed him hastily, while the elder lady he assumed was Brenda patted him on the shoulder.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly.

“No problem, dear. I’m sure Dr. Wesley already told you I’m a big softy.”

“Nothing’s wrong with that,” he responded, flashing her a grateful smile.

“No I suppose there’s not.” She grinned, and then she was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two hours later, the elder Spencer found himself back, staring at an empty hospital bed in confusion. His brow knit in worry. He backed out of the small space, stumbling over to the nurse’s station.

“Where’s my son!?” he demanded.

“Sir?” the startled nurse gasped.

“My son, he was just in there two hours ago. His bed is empty. Where is he?” he explained harshly, pointing in the direction of his son’s previous location.

“And what is your son’s name?”

“Shawn, Shawn Spencer.”

The nurse pursed her thin lips, while she typed the information into the computer’s data base. Moments later she looked up and smiled. “There’s nothing to worry about, sir. It says here that your son has just been moved to a private room on the third floor.”

The relief on Henry’s face was evident as he let out the breath he had been holding. “What room?”

“Number 342.”

Without even a thank you, Henry was gone, racing down the hall towards the elevators. He skidded to a stop in front of the silver doors, slapping the arrow button as he did so. He watched the numbers lighting up one at a time before the familiar ding brought the doors sliding open. He quickly moved inside and pushed the 3 on the panel beside him. A few minutes later, he was in the halls again glancing at the plaques, reading the numbers until his eyes came to rest on the desired 342.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Psych. I never have, and alas, I never will.

A/N: Thank you Olivia94 for your wonderful help. I’d be lost without you, wandering around in the land of bad punctuation lol!

Chapter 6: Awkward, can anyone say awkward?

Almost three days had gone by and Shawn had drifted in and out of consciousness on only a few occasions. When he opened his bleary eyes briefly, he never said anything before once again closing them, much to his fathers and Gus’s chagrin.

Henry was returning from his morning coffee run. The dark steaming liquid seemed to be the only thing fueling his body and keeping him going for the time being. The cot they had brought him to sleep on definitely wasn’t letting him get any rest, as his back seemed to protest to its lack of support every time he attempted to lay down and catch a few winks. Slipping through the door to his son’s room, he approached the bed quietly. He set his cup down and gripped his son’s hand, which he had made a habit of doing hours before. What he hadn’t expected, was to feel the previously still fingers twitching ever so slightly before loosely encircling his own.

“Shawn!” he breathed expectantly, carefully leaning forward.

In answer, his son’s head turned slightly towards him. Almost hesitantly, two weary green orbs peeked out from behind tired lids before scrunching back together in an attempt to block out the searing light that had invaded them.

Sensing his distress, Henry released his hold only long enough to slip over to the switch and flick the light off. Now, only the soft morning glow emitting from behind the closed window blinds was left to illuminate the room. When the elder Spencer turned around, Shawn was once again looking blearily at him. He received a brief, grateful smile before it disappeared and his son closed his eyes.

Quickly, Henry was at the bedside gently touching his shoulder. “Shawn?” He whispered, hoping not to be disappointed again.

Once more heavy lids lifted, and Shawn opened his chapped lips to respond.

“D-D--Dad.” It was hoarse and raspy, almost painful, but it was music to his ears.

“Hey kid.”

“Wat--er?” Henry nodded and retrieved the full pitcher off the tray-table and poured a little of the liquid into the small plastic cup beside it.

Licking his lips in anticipation, Shawn lifted his head slightly in an attempt to meet the glass faster. He sipped slowly and felt relieved as it slid down, washing away what felt like cotton and sandpaper lining his throat. “T--thanks.” he whispered gratefully.

“Sure thing. How are you feeling?”

A soft chuckle past Shawn’s lips and he leaned further into his pillow. “Somewhere between a drowned rat and being hit by a freight train.”

Henry cringed visibly. “Yeah, well, that sounds accurate. Do you need any more pain meds?”

“I’m OK for now.”

When their eyes met again, Shawn could feel a barrage of emotions pouring out of the dark depths his father’s eyes, but none of which were the anger he was expecting. It was uncomfortable and awkward, so he broke eye contact and proceeded to look at the sling that was immobilizing his father’s arm. “Why?” he asked softly and Henry didn’t have to ask what he meant by the inquiry.

“Tore some muscles in my shoulder. It’s nothing.”

Shawn knew exactly what the injury had been caused by without explanation, and the guilt reflected in his green irises told his father that he indeed understood.

“The rope...it was cutting me in half. I felt it break. I knew at that moment I was dead.”

“It didn’t break. The damn firemen cut it.” Henry ground out bitterly.

“Oh.”

“I told them not to…begged even.” Shawn flinched at the omission.

“How did you get me out?”

“I followed along the bank, and saw you clinging to a boulder…” Henry paused and took a shaky breath. “Crawled out on a felled tree and, when you were swept back into the water, I grabbed you.”

“I don’t remember that part.”

“That’s because you weren’t breathin’ kid.”

“That would explain a lot.” Shawn whispered, a look of diluted shock crossed his face at the revelation. Risking a glance at his father’s stormy features, he could see the man was intently studying his shoes. “I’m sorry.” He spoke softly.

“Yeah, well, maybe next time you’ll look before you leap instead of throwing all caution to the wind like you always do. Then I wouldn’t have to save your sorry behind.” The words were a grumble, but they made Shawn smile. Now there was his father.

Just as he thought the awkwardness was going to dissipate, his father lifted his gaze with what looked like the beginnings of tears misting in his eyes. He was obviously trying to hold them back, but they were there all the same. ‘Oh crap!’

“I damn near lost you Shawn. It scared the hell out of me. I never felt so helpless in my entire life…never.”

This wasn’t happening. He, his father, emotions—this so couldn’t be happening. He was too tired to do this now. He opened his mouth, about to divert the direction of the present conversation, when the pleading look in his father’s eyes caused his jaw to abruptly shut. Briefly closing his eyes, he breathed in a shallow breath, careful not to disturb his aching ribs. Cautiously, he slid his hand over to grip the fingers of his father’s hand. When he felt the reciprocated squeeze, he tugged gently bringing his father closer. Resisting the urge to open his eyes in fear of chickening out, he tugged again. Then it happened. His breath caught as his father leaned over him slowly and they were locked in a gentle but odd one armed hug. Breathing out softly, it seemed as though he was no longer in control when he took in the comforting natural scent of his father. It was good. It was familiar and he unexpectedly felt his body relaxing. He would totally deny this ever happening later, but right now, this moment, it just felt…right.

Quietly, a tall, lanky figure slipped in through the door and looked at the scene before him in shock. The Spencers…hugging! For a moment he considered fleeing frantically from the room, but his surprise slowly morphed into a devious smirk and he slipped further into the space. 

Henry pulled away first, his back aching from the odd angle of their embrace. His free hand slid through the disheveled tuffs jutting out of his son’s scalp, a fond smile on his lips. Shawn just laid there, eyes closed until a low cough brought him out of his moment of rest.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Psych. I never have, and alas, I never will.

A/N: Yippie! Chapter 7 is up. Thanks Olivia94 for being a great beta J

Chapter 7: Oh, by the way…

“Good morning, Detective.” Henry greeted as he turned and shook the younger man’s hand.

“Mr. Spencer.” He acknowledged with a nod.

“Lassie!”

The hyped voice made him cringe. The smirk was wiped clean off Lassiter’s features, but he still managed to put on a civil face and acknowledge the man lying on the bed. “It’s good to see you’re finally awake, Spencer.”

“You were worried about me. I knew it!”

Carlton huffed. “Hardly. I have been basking in the station’s silence for the last three days, actually. I was finally able to hear myself think.”

When no response came to his comment, he looked curiously over at the younger man who was trying to sit up while fumbling with the bed controls “Hey dad, can you give me a hand?”

“You just sit still and I’ll get it. I don’t want you pulling your stitches.” Henry scolded, reaching over to pluck the controls out of his son’s fidgeting hand. He hadn’t moved very far before a pained hiss escaped from his clinched jaw.

“Let me get it , Henry.” Carlton stated as he passed the older man and proceeded to raise the bed into a more comfortable sitting position. He set the controller down and began to move from his leaned position when Shawn gripped his forearm. The detective’s gaze caught with Spencer’s green orbs in an instant. Normally he would have jerked away, but the intensity in which the young man was staring at him was disconcerting.

“Spencer?”

“Did you get him?”

“Get who, Shawn?” Releasing the man’s arm, Shawn glanced over Lassiter’s shoulder, his lips morphing in to a large grin. He watched as Juliet entered the room with Gus trailing close behind, a smoothie in his hand.

“Jules! Gus!” He exclaimed. “You’re here!”

“Spencer?” Lassiter continued to prod, but the kid’s mind had already veered off in the opposite direction. 

“Dude, that better be pineapple!”

Gus snorted, handing the cold cup to his best friend’s awaiting and eager fingers “Like I’d honestly buy you anything else.”

“He’s brought one by everyday in case you decided to wake up and join the rest of us.” Henry smiled.

“You’re awesome!” Shawn spouted sloppily, the straw already stuffed in his mouth. One hand moved up and out in a weak fist.

“You know that’s right” Gus grinned, tapping the outstretched appendage with his own.

“Spencer, can’t you focus? What were you talking about earlier? Who were we supposed to get?”

“Tompkins!” he exclaimed throwing a hand dramatically in the air, before a yelp of pain brought his burst of excitement to a sudden halt. “Ow…ow!” he hissed, gripping his side and passing the cup back to Gus. “I thought you guys would’ve have had him by now.” He gritted out.

“Spencer, there’s no evidence. We can’t prove anything.”

“I had all the evidence you needed back at the river. I got it. He’s toast. What more could you want?”

“In case you don’t remember the only thing we got from that scene was your half drowned ass.”

Ignoring the detective, Henry moved closer to his son. “You saw the murder weapon?”

“Saw it? I totally had it! The hunting knife with his initials, the knick on the blade that I’m willing to bet matches the scoring marks left on the bones of all five bodies—well I guess probably six now. You get the point it.”

“Well, a fat lot of good that does us now.” Carlton growled. “It could have been washed anywhere. It’ll be weeks before the conditions are stable enough for us to even look through the mess down there.”

“I’m afraid he’s right kid: whatever you had was gone the moment you slipped into those rapids.”

Shawn continued to look smug despite the pessimism running through the group. Gus seemed to be the only one able to read the expression on his face for what it was.

“You still have it!” Gus exclaimed. The group started at the outburst, all shocked faces turning quickly to the figure on the bed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Carlton muttered, as Juliet moved in front of him.

 “How Shawn? And more importantly where?” She asked

“Well Jules, I was wearing my cargo shorts with the totally awesome camo zipper pockets. May they rest in pieces.” He sighed, faking a solemn look. “Anyway, I already had it sealed in place and was about to head back towards you guys. Then the ground I was on completely gave way. So, unless you pulled me out clad in my boxers, it’s in the personal stuff they would have collected off me when I got here.” He looked over at his dad questioningly. “I thought you’d have gotten them by now.”

“I was going to, but I kept procrastinating—kept thinking you’d wake up the moment I decided to leave.”

“Well, what are we waiting for, O’Hara? Let’s go! If it’s there, we have what we need to nail that slippery SOB.” Lassiter shouted unnecessarily as his lanky frame disappeared through the wide hospital door.

“We’ll be back later and I’ll keep you informed.” Juliet reached down and squeezed Shawn’s hand­­. “I’m glad you’re ok” she said, sparing him a small smile. Quickly, she turned to leave in a rushed gait in order to catch up with her partner.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Henry looked at Shawn’s face and noted the exhausted expression that had seemed to take residence over his son’s features. He patted the young man on the shoulder encouragingly with his good hand. “Why don’t you rest now, kid. There’s nothing else you can do for now.”

The younger Spencer leaned into the mattress and expelled a long breath. He was tempted to argue with his father for the sake of valued tradition, but as he let his muscles relax, the adrenaline that had been running through his system seemed to quickly dissipate. All that was left was the tiredness and the feeling that his body’s energy had been completely spent.

Watching as his son’s eyelids drooped lower with little fight before closing, he motioned to Gus to help him lower the bed. Within moments Shawn was lying down—his head tilted toward his visitors. His father was barely visible through tiny slits, but he could still tell he was there. “I’m going to take that nap now.” he murmured.

“Sure thing kid. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Mm…K.”

Disclaimer: I don’t own the TV show Psych or any of its characters

A/N: Thank you Olivia94 for your great advice and beta help on my story

Chapter 8 – Evidence or no evidence that is the question

Lassiter sped through the halls as if the Devil himself were after him, earning himself some disapproving scowls—all of which came from several of the nurses that he almost took out before leaving them in his wake as he came charging through the halls.

Both of his hands slammed onto the counter before him with a resounding thud that had the poor brunette behind it jumping in complete surprise. From the look on her face it was clear she thought he was a mad man. He reached for his hip, pulling his badge up, and flashed it into clear view. “I’m Head Detective Carlton Lassiter with the SBPD. There were some personal items taken off of a one Shawn Spencer several days ago. We have reason to believe one of these items may be key evidence in a murder investigation.” Carlton looked at the lady with expectation, still catching his breath from his sprint. The nurse just stared like a deer caught in headlights--a look of confusion plastered across her pale features.

Juliet grabbed her partner and pushed him to the side. “Let me Carlton.” She hissed, putting on a charming and friendly smile. Lassiter frowned but said nothing as his partner talked with the girl. Moments later the young nurse was smiling, turning away, and walking toward a filing cabinet. Soon she was efficiently flipping through the name tabs posted atop each folder.

“I said the same thing!” he huffed.

Juliet let out chuckle. “Sure you did partner. You threw yourself at her, shoving your badge in her face, while towering imposingly over her, and talking about murder.”

“See, it was the same!”

His partner rolled her eyes, but the look of ‘whatever’ disappeared quickly when the lady returned clutching a brown envelope in her hand. Lassiter snatched it out of the woman’s fingers before she had the time to say a word.  Instantly he turned away to open the item in more privacy. Juliet saw the irritated look the nurse was glaring into her partners back. She mouthed the word ‘sorry’ followed by a softly spoken “thank you” as she turned to look at what they had found.

The man tilted the envelope over, letting the contents slide downward towards the opening. In a blink of his eye he saw the carved bone handle partially appear, along with a waterlogged wallet, and keys connected to a pineapple key chain.

“O’Hara, call Greg Sheldon in forensics and tell him to be ready to receive evidence. We needed these tests done yesterday.” He ordered shortly.

Juliet only nodded as she pulled out her cell and lifted it to her ear. The phone had only begun to ring when she moved forward to follow her partners determined gate towards the exit.

PSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCPSYCHPSYCH

Shawn could hear a faded voice floating about as he slowly awoke to the familiar white walls and clean sanitary air of the hospital. The source of the voice was apparently Gus, who was talking excitedly into his cell phone while pacing across the room. Upon seeing his best friend’s eyes staring questioningly at him, he said his goodbyes and hung up.

“Dude, who was that, and what are you so hyped about?”

“That was Juliet. She said that the knife was in your belongings.  They handed it over to forensics for testing a few minutes ago. With all the fingerprints that are being collected off of it, they are hoping that maybe one of them will match our bad guy. They’re also crossing their fingers in hopes that with all the tampering the hospital has done with it—not to mention its little dunk in the water—there is still something to be found.”

“Well if there is, Greg will find it. He’s the best in the department. He’s better than Bill Nye the science guy.”

“Well he better, that sick bastard has been mocking us for months now. I’ve been sleeping with my light on--if you know what I mean.”

“Gus, you do know he only takes women, right?”

“As of now yes, but I watch the Crime and Investigation channel. There are a lot of sick people out there, and some of them change MOs halfway through a spree. I’m not taking any chances.” 

Shawn grinned and shook his head.

PSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCPSYCHPSYCH

Greg Sheldon was a big man, tall, with a thick mustache. Some would think the facial hair would allow him to fit in at any motorcycle bar between here and New York City. Those who knew him, though, knew his heart was just as big as his broad chest.

He had transferred from a Podunk town deep in the heart of Texas to Santa Barbara about two years ago. He had hopes of working with a department with the funds to facilitate a forensics department with equipment from sometime within this century.

Sheldon’s nerves had been on edge for months; everyone had been waiting to find the right piece of damning evidence that would allow them to lock away Tompkins for life.

It was only within the last two months or so, as their killer continued to elude them, that he was beginning to regret his transfer. Greg had liked California despite the drastic change of scenery from pine to palm trees and flat plains to tall buildings. It was the disappointment and guilt as the victims continued to appear that had him in a constant state of tension. It also didn’t help that the chief was breathing down his neck, or that the bullheaded Detective Lassiter continued to hound him for the evidence that just wasn’t there. He had the reputation of being a Miracle worker in the past, but despite his two decades of experience as a forensic scientist, in this case it seemed he was running out of the divine answers.  

He wiped the perspiration off his thick brow, adjusting his belt buckle before leaning forward to look deeper into his microscope.

Greg knit his brow in concentration, as he examined the damaged edge of the blade. With a hiss of hope, he pushed away from the table. Still seated on his stool, he rolled across the room towards his laptop. In a flurry of movement he had encoded his findings.

Jumping up, he ran over to locate several of the molds that he himself had cast. They were impressions of some of the deepest score marks that had been found on the bones of Tompkin’s victims. He aligned them on a tray and began his trek back to the microscope, grabbing his stool on the way.

Brushing a few stray strands of his auburn hair out of the way, he looked once again into the lens. The first piece of molding was moved next to the indention in the hunting knife. Instantly a smile began to spread across his face: the markers were adding up perfectly. Sheldon proceeded to look at the others, contented in the end with matching 17 of the 23 pieces. He once more encoded his findings, this time with a growing satisfaction that they just may have their killer backed into a corner this time.

Moments later he was dusting and peeling finger prints. After an hour had passed he was pleased to have identified 6 full prints and 4 partials. He had also removed 7 unknown particulates. Now, only a little more time would tell if they had everything they needed to nail that SOB.  

PSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCPSYCHPSYCH

Lassiter paced anxiously through the station. Some of the other officers watched him with a slight interest, others chose to ignore the impatient man.

It wasn’t until the head detective saw Sheldon come barreling through the corridor that he allowed himself to pause and assess the man’s expression, hoping to find a clue to the news he was about to deliver. After a swift glance over the man’s fast approaching features, he was able to register the wide grin coupled with an excited twinkle in his eye. A knowing smile spread over Lassiter’s face as he moved forward to take the file from the taller man.

“You nailed him, didn’t you?” The detective spouted, though it was spoken as more of a statement than a question.

The big man was out shining his large belt buckle. “Nailed him solid.” Sheldon beamed. “Two prints were a complete match to Adrian Tompkins. The indentation of the knife matches the marks left on the bodies, and have his initials engraved into the handle. It’s definitely his—not to mention it’s the same knife Spencer noticed missing three months ago from the guy’s hunting gear. It fits the sheath, as does the markings it leaves behind within it.”

“Great job Sheldon.” Lassiter acknowledged as he retrieved the file, flipping through the pages quickly. “O’Hara!” he shouted as he veered off in a sprint towards his partner. “Call judge parker, we need that warrant now. We’re bringing in this scumbag down right now.”

“McNabb, keep the press quiet! I don’t want that arrogant bastard to have so much as a whiff that we’re onto him. If I catch anyone leaking anything their ass is mine! Got it?!”

Disclaimer: I don’t own the TV show Psych or any of its characters

A/N: Thank you Olivia94 for helping me get another chapter out J

Chapter 9: To catch a killer—or not!

Lassiter’s heart was pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he gripped his service weapon tighter. One glance at his partner told him she was feeling the same way.

Both detectives quietly ascended the five flights of stairs that lead to the killer’s apartment. In a few moments this would all be over. Seven months of hell would be at an end.

Juliet radioed to the officers covering the back to stand-by before looking to her partner. The two gave each other an identical expression that said ‘be ready’ as the door to Tompkins’s room came into view. They swiftly, yet stealthily, approached.

Another glance passed between them, and Juliet nodded at Lassiter to proceed. Quietly the head detective tested the brass handle before signaling for O’Hara to move back.

Taking in a deep breath, he steadied himself.  In one fluid motion his foot was connecting to solid wood, door jamb splintering. The door blew forcefully inward and both detectives entered with their guns raised in anticipation.

“SBPD! This is Detective Carlton Lassiter. Come out with your hands up!”

When they were met with silence, Juliet took a moment to take in her surroundings “Carlton” she hissed “look.”

Lassiter followed his partner to the untouched dinner that sat atop the kitchen counter. “It’s still warm. He has to be here.” She warned.

“Stay alert.” Was all he had to say. He moved away, gripping his firearm tighter, and moved toward the living room. The apartment was sparsely decorated and ridiculously clean—it didn’t look like a killer’s lair. ‘Then again,’ Lassiter thought, ‘they almost never do.’

The TV was on; its constant noise blocked any stray sounds that might indicate where Tompkins may have been hiding. The head detective strode carefully and purposefully over to the remote. He was ready to turn it off when Juliet’s hand flew forward to stop his lanky fingers from pressing the power button.

Curiously he looked up to see what had caught her attention and found himself frozen to the floor.

“Once again,” the TV announced, “Our top story this afternoon is that, after seven months of waiting, vital evidence has finally turned up on the Santa Barbra slayings of 6 young women. It was found by the SBPD’s very own Psychic Detective Shawn Spencer. The 33 year old is said to be in the Santa Barbra Memorial Hospital due to an accident during the retrieval of this incriminating evidence. He is listed in unknown condition, but we will update you on his condition and with more news from this breaking story as the information continues to come in.”

“Damn it!” Carlton hissed. Throwing caution to the wind, he went barreling into the next room; swinging his gun out in front of him. Juliet followed, silently covering his back. Her mind was screaming in silence ‘No, no, no, no!’

Both partners cleared the remaining rooms, their hearts beating wildly as the list of remaining hiding places grew slim. Upon entering the bedroom Lassiter spotted what he had feared: An open window with the curtains blowing softly in the breeze. He just knew what had happened.

 “That bastard! He was here!” he growled, running to where their killer had exited. “He was here! Those ingrates tipped him off!”

His partner’s voice could be heard shouting into her radio for Officers Laurence and Dillon. Looking out the window, Lassiter scanned the fire escape and the area below, only to see the two officers sprawled unmoving on the ground. Movement in his peripheral vision caused him to look in time to see Tompkins at the edge of the alley, staring right back at him with those icy blue depths that had haunted his dreams for weeks on end.

“Adrian Tompkins stop!” he yelled angrily. “You are under arrest!”

A cold smile crept over his opponent’s face, while his hand lifted and waved tauntingly at the detectives. It was as if he was saying ‘catch me if you can’. He then turned the corner and disappeared from view.

“After him!” Juliet shouted. “I’ll check Laurence and Dillon.”

It was on. Both detectives were out the window and barreling down the metal stairs, leaving an assault of clanging noises to echo throughout the alley. Lassiter could hear his partner breathlessly radioing the situation, shouting ‘officers down’, and pleading for back-up as they made their descent.

The older man took the lead as his long legs met with cement, and took off in a dead run towards the last known location of his target. Turning the corner he was met with an empty sidewalk, a sea of cars, and countless escape routes. He turned in several directions; his trained eyes scanning the area. Running out into the street, his eyes gazed into the interiors of several cars waiting at the stop light ahead. When the light turned green he cursed. The vehicles began to stir and move away from him. Several motorists started honking but were silenced with the flash of the agitated man’s gun. The angry detective made his way off the street and onto the side walk.

 “Carlton?” Juliet asked questioningly behind him. When he twisted to look into her eyes, she already knew what he would say. Tompkins was gone.

“No!” Lassiter erupted, heedless of the surprised pedestrians who were now starring at the odd pair.

In a whirl of anger, the lanky detective’s clinched fist connected to the brick wall beside him. “Damn it!” he hissed in both fury and pain.

“Carlton stop!” the younger woman pleaded. “We can still catch him. We will catch him. The chief is already stationing road blocks.”

“He won’t leave the city.”  The older man stated firmly.

“What makes you so sure?”

“He has nothing to lose now, O’Hara. We know it was him. We can prove it, and he knows we can. The man’s been playing with us from the beginning. He’s psychotic, and I guarantee you this won’t quit till we catch him or he’s dead.”

“Then we need to get going, Officers Laurence and Dillon are fine, just unconscious. Tompkins had a tranquilizer gun—we should be thankful that was all he had.”

“I doubt that was all.” he growled in response. “Like I said before, he’s playing with us.”

“We have a lot of ground to cover if we’re going to find him again.”

Nodding in agreement, Lassiter followed his partner’s determined gait. There was a deep churning feeling in the pit of his stomach at the thought of having failed. He could see the look in the man’s animalistic eyes daring him, telling him it wasn’t over.

Whoever leaked this to the news was about to wish they’d never been born.

PSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCH

Tompkins slid into the backseat of his taxi and shut the door with a morbid sense of satisfaction.

“Where ya headed?” the cabbie asked, looking at him through the plated glass wedged between them.

“Santa Barbra Memorial Hospital” he stated confidently. 

“You gonna visit someone there?”

“You could say I have some business that’s waiting for me.”

Disclaimer: I don’t own the TV show Psych or any of its characters

A/N: Thank you Olivia94 for helping me get another chapter out J

Chapter 10: Will the real Dr. Stevens please stand up

Tompkins moved through the corridors with quiet ease.  He passed countless faces—none of which had so much as given him a second look. Of course, who would suspect a doctor? That is exactly what he appeared to be. A white lab coat hung loosely over sea foam green scrubs; its thin fabric rippled gently behind him as he walked with confidence through the halls. He clutched a clipboard lightly that that made a soft noise with each drum of his fingers across its back.

When the imposter recieved a cheery smile from the very attractive brunette at the nurse’s desk,  he couldn’t help but let his eyes run appraisingly over her fair features. Then, with preditorial interest, the man flashed the girl a charming smile. Adrian grinned inwardly as a blush crept across her cheeks and she looked flusteredly towards her computer screen. ‘If only she knew.’ He thought in satisfaction. She was his if he wanted. But alas, he had other plans; another goal in which to obtain, so he continued on.

When the sign plate ‘342’ appeared in front him, Tompkins felt the morbid excitement that had been building inside him explode. Lowering the clipboard he controled his features, trying to hide the menacing expression that he knew was fighting to manifest itself.

Gripping the handle Adrian quickly strode in to the room. One initial look around the small space exposed the empty benches and chairs. The only inhabitants of the room were Spencer, who was laying, blissfully ignorantly asleep, and a nurse, who was bent over him adgusting the various IV leads.

The older woman looked up as he entered and smiled softly at him. “Good afternoon, Doctor.” She greeted.

Glancing briefly at her name tag he returned her smile “Afternoon Lydia. How’s our patient doing today?”

“He’s been doing much better; he’s just sleeping off all the excitement.”

“Excitement?” he questioned with feigned intrest.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Lydia spouted. “Nurse Alice told me this young man solved the Santa Barbra murders. All we know for sure is that the Police were here, and then they ran out of here rambling about evidence and what not.” She gossiped excitedly. “The women of the city will sure rest better—I know I certainly will. The news has been giving me the willies for the last few months.”

“Sounds like you’ve all had quite the morning.”  

“Yes, and it wore the poor thing out. He’s been asleep for quite awhile--that’s why we were finaly able to push that hovering father of his down to the cafateria.”  

 “Well I’m sure both men needed a break.”

“Indeed.” She grinned while gathering her things.

As she prepared to go, the woman couldn’t help but be curious about the doctor in front of her. ‘He must be new’ she thought.

Her sienna eyes swept a glance over the metalic name plate pinned to the white fabric of his lab coat. What the experienced RN saw made her skin grow cold and the hair across her arms and the back of her neck rise swiftly. This man was most definately not Dr. Stevens. His tall toned frame was a far cry from the real doctor’s size and shape.

Tompkins noticed the woman’s hesitation, and looked over at her fearful eyes. “You’re not Dr. Stevens.” she whispered shakily.

“No. No I’m not.” he responded, his lips curling up. “You should have minded your own bussiness and left quietly. There’s a saying about that you know. Something along the lines of curiosity and a cat.”

‘Oh God!’ she thought, recovering from her frozen shock. Lydia suddenly made a dessperate break for the door. Anticipating the lady’s move however, the imposter intercepted her. A cry of unadulterated terror tore from her lips  before being muffled by the strong hand now clasped over her mouth.

“Shhhhh.” He hushed.

Lydia kicked out, but her attacker was behind her. Tompkins winced as the woman’s nails dug into the rough skin of his normally gloved hands, drawing blood—as well as evidence.

A rustling sound came from across the room and alerted him to the fact that his target had been awakened by the exchange. His icy depths met with the dark emralds of the psuedo pychic’s. He was now sitting up, legs dangling off the edge of the matress, with a myrid of emotions spreading across his face.

Shawn could see the pure horror in the eyes of his most recent care giver, as well as the malicious intent in the expression of the man he had been persuing for the last 7 months.

“Let her go!” he hissed.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s awake” Tompkins taunted. “Now I couldn’t do that. It would completely ruin my fun and take away my advantage.”

“Look. Just do what you came to do. Take me. That’s what you’re here for, right? I mean, we know it’s not for the quality of the food.”

“Obviously.” Adrian grinned.

While one arm kept the woman in front of him restrained, he reached into the depths of his coat with the other and pulled out his gun.

The silencer that was screwed onto the end of the weapon did not go unnoticed by the younger man. ‘Oh Crap!’ they were going to die and no one would hear a thing. Nervously, he slid his fingers across the sheets towards the emergency button that lay a few feet behind him. Help would come if he could reach it—hopefully in time. All he had to do was stall.

The sound of the gun cocking stilled his hands. “Tisk, tisk, tisk Mr. Spencer. Do you think me a fool?” the older man growled. “One more move and this ends now.”

Shawn frowned and put his hand back in front of him. Carefully, he let his feet touch the floor.

“You don’t listen very well, do you?” Adrian hissed, gripping the nurse tighter. Lydia let out a muffled yelp and pleaded with her eyes for the young man in front of her to not do anything stupid.

“I said one...more...move.”

“Just ask my dad, he’s always said I have a serious hearing impairment.”

“Well I suggest that it magically rights itself. And fast.”

They stared at each other a moment; both men sizing the other up.

Shawn did his best to try and hide some of the pain and weakness he was still feeling. He had been doing better since he had first fully awoken, but he still hadn’t ventured out of the bed until now. The floor seemed to want to move beneath him, giving him a disturbing case of vertigo. If the man in front of him felt anything at all, Shawn couldn’t see it. His features were set in a mask of confidence.

There was a slight rattle of the door knob, followed by frustrated banging on the door’s hard wood. “Shawn! Did you lock this door? What are you doing out of bed anyway? When are you going to grow up? This better be open in five seconds, kid!”

The unexpected arrival of his father didn’t distract their attacker long, but it was all the younger man needed to make a desperate move. With more speed than he thought himself capable, he made a clumsy rush forward.

Shawn stumbled into the pair, knocking the duo off balance. At once, a round from Tompkins weapon silently discharged and blew into the door, elisiting a loud streem of muffled curses on the other side. The hand now removed from her mouth allowed Lydia to let out the scream she had been forced to hold back. All three of their bodies landed awkwardly on the floor, eliciting a cry of pain from Shawn.

In panicked flight mode, the frightened nurse freed her limbs and scrambled away from her attacker. She quickly slid behind the bed while shouting for help—frightened tears streaming down her face.

There was a pounding on the door that sounded alot like Henry’s body slaming into the hard barrier, and Shawn only hoped his dad would be sucsessful and hurry. Reinforcements would be nice right now, too. Stars were already dancing infront of his eyes as it was, but he still tried to pull himself up onto his knees with a groan.

“Dad!” he yelled out, only to be silenced and knocked down with a forceful blow from the killers fist.

“Shut the hell up!” Adrian growled in his ear. He felt Tompkins fingers wrap into the thin fabric of his gown and pull his body upwards. When his vision cleared he was face to face with the asailant. ‘If looks could kill.’

“You ruined everything!” the man hissed.

Shawn gave a smirk that was halfway between cocky and a grimace. Before he could even say the sarcastic remark that was on the tip of his tongue, he was thrown against the wall, his head cracking painfully against the plaster. Adrian’s long fingers gripped the soft flesh of his neck, and in an instant his air supply was abruptly cut off. He began to thrash, but his body was held tight, pressed painfully against the wall by the bigger man’s body.

“But I still win. In the end I still win!” Tompkins boasted, his eyes preditorily scanning the younger man. The sound of the door jamb giving way echoed loudly, and Tompkins found himself running out of time. With a grunt of effort he tossed the psychic into the bed railing.

Shawn let out a painful rasp as his ribs struck metal—what ever breath he had tried to pull in had been quickly knocked from his starving lungs. With little fight his legs gave out, and his body slid to the ground, coughing, chest heaving.   

Tompkins picked up the gun from where it had fallen just as the door burst inward. The broad form of Henry Spencer was the first through the door, followed by three security gaurds with their guns drawn. By the time they processed the scene before them, Adrian was pulling Shawn’s body off the floor, pressing the cool metal of his gun against the young man’s temple.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Henry yelled, throwing his hand out. The room stilled in an instant—nothing but hard breathing was heard in that moment.

“D...dad” Shawn rasped, biting back a hiss as the gun was pressed harder into his skin.

“Shut up!” Tompkins comanded wildly.

“You must be daddy Spencer.” He hissed. “Your boy has the brain of a genius, but the mouth of an idiot. I don’t know weather to be impressed or annoyed. I think I’ll stick with a mix of the two.”

“Leave him alone. It’s over.” Henry growled angrily.

The retired officer saw a look appear in the man’s eyes that he had seen before in other cornered criminals. It was a wild look—cold and inteligent. It spoke without words; saying ‘this is the end.’

“No, Mr. Spencer.” He stated with finality. “It isn’t over. Not yet.” 

The father locked eyes with his son. There was an unspoken goodbye in the kid’s depths. The man’s finger began to tighten around the trigger, and then everything moved as if thrust into slow motion. Shawn’s eyes slipped closed his lashes caressing his cheeks in quiet acceptance. Henry let out a strangled shout of desperation as he moved forward in a futile effort to reach his son.

Disclaimer: I don’t own the TV show Psych or any of its characters

A/N: Last Chappie yeah!!!!!!!! Thank you everyone who has stuck with me through the whole story. Cheers to Olivia94 for helping the story to be easier to read for all of you punctuation fanatics out there lol! J I happy to see a story I started 3 years ago, but gave up on and never posted—actually get finished! I’m excited. As always Please R/R, it’s like pineapple to me.

Chapter 11: Who Knew a Bed Pan could be a Lethal Weapon

Shawn felt the explosion of air more than heard it as the gun discharged. He could feel his hair ruffle, which was followed by the weightless feeling of falling.

Henry watched in awestruck surprise as Adrian Tompkins’s eyes rolled back in his head and the man pitched forward just as the gun discharged in his hand. He moved to catch his son’s rapidly descending body. He ignored the painful protest in his shoulder, and pulled his child close, hugging him as tightly as he dared while lowering himself to the floor. When he looked up he saw that nurse Lydia stood, towering over the fallen murderer, with a stainless steel bedpan clutched tightly within her neatly manicured fingers. Tears were still wet on her cheeks and her chest heaved from the intense adrenaline rush she felt. She looked in shock at the man at her feet and tossed the pan to the ground with a clatter so that she could bring her trembling hands up to cover face once again in a strangled sob.

Two of the security guards secured the murderer as the other went to help the obviously distraught woman.

Shawn opened his eyes soon after feeling his body touch gently to the floor. He looked at the scene in front of him with the same amount of amazement as his father was. He couldn’t help but flash a grateful smile at the woman who had just clocked Tompkins with a bedpan.

“Dude” He croaked. “That. Was. Awesome.”

He sighed wearily before leaning his head against his father’s chest.

“Yeah kid. That was awesome.” Henry agreed, letting his fingers brush affectionately through his son’s disheveled locks. He rested his chin on his son’s crown and, for just a moment, let himself breathe.

PSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCH

Shawn was already back in bed, his father hovering protectively over him, when Lassiter and Juliet arrived. They had spent the last two hours gathering statements and hauling Adrian Tompkins to jail; all that was left was to get a report from Shawn himself, and then they would be ready to file the paperwork. They had yet to see the young man due to the doctor’s need to repair a few pulled stitches at the time of their first arrival—the hospital had also given him a full examination just in case.

“Shawn, are you all right?” Juliet inquired as she moved over to his side.

“Just a few extra bruises to add to my collection, but honestly you totally should have been here.” He grinned. “Nurse Lydia kicked Mr. T’s butt.”

Ignoring the A-team crack, Lassiter frowned “She used a bed pan.”

“I know!” the younger man raved, “It was awesome! He went down like a sack of potatoes. He didn’t stand a chance.”

Lassiter looked skeptical despite Shawn’s insistence. Henry, however, couldn’t help but smile affectionately as Shawn began to rant about another Lethal Weapon sequel.  When he saw Lassiter roll his eyes he mouthed the word ‘Drugs’ to the detective. It was as if a light of understanding dawned on the man.

Lassiter sighed and moved towards Henry. Juliet may have been hovering over the bed, hanging on to every insane comment flying out of the kid’s mouth, but that didn’t mean he had to. Normal Shawn was bad enough; he didn’t need or want to experience the ‘high as a kite’ version anytime this century.

“Did you book him?” Henry asked.

“He’s locked up tight with a bunch of pissed off cop’s watching his cell.”

“Good. I hope he rots for what he did--he’s lucky I didn’t kill him myself when I had the opportunity.”

Lassiter smiled. “You would have had to get in line. Besides, with what we got on him, the least he gets is life in prison—I heard they’re going for the death penalty.”

Henry nodded and looked back at his son. “Did you find out who leaked to the press that you had evidence?”

Lassiter’s expression turned irritated as he sighed “One of the nurses whose gossip grapevine made it to a colleague’s sister who works at channel 4.”

“Figures.” The elder Spencer muttered angrily.

“The Chief has already been on the phone chewing up and spitting out the TV exec’s asses.”

“Good. The morons nearly got my son killed—they’re lucky they’re not dealing with me.”

One look at the quiet fury in the older man’s eyes and Lassiter couldn’t help but agree. Karen Vick was a force to be reckoned with, but Henry Spencer was as scary as hell.

‘At least it’s over.’ Lassiter thought. The case was closed, grieving families given closure, and stupid psychics were still breathing.

“Hey, Lassie, what do you think of Lethal Bedpan as a spoof sequel—it could be like Scary Movie. Mel Gibson would totally love it, don’t you think?”

Groaning, Lassiter turned and began to walk away. “Call me when he’s not high and can give a proper statement.”

Henry held back a snort, but the corners of his mouth were still quirked up while he watched the lanky detective walk away.

PSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCHPSYCH

When the door clicked closed behind him, Lassiter let out a shaky breath -- things would return to normal now.

He let himself glance back through the window just as Shawn began gesticulating wildly with his hands. Juliet was laughing happily next to the man and Henry, despite his efforts, barked out a laugh also. A small, contented smile flitted over the detective’s mouth. ‘Yes, normal is good, it’s real good.’  Slowly he turned and began to stroll down the hallway. He hummed a happy tune as he went that morphed slowly into song and his smile broadened.

He either didn’t notice or ignored the odd looks he received from the lady at the front desk and the dark young man who had been flirting with her.