Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

He’d been wrong.  Spectacularly wrong, and he hadn’t had to pay the consequences for it.  Someone else did.  Which was somehow a hundred times worse because he’d made the mistake and it should’ve been him paying for it.

An extra loud THUMP.

He’d argued with the boy about baseball, a ten-year-old who knew more stats than was good for anyone, and told the little girl that you could fly if you believed it hard enough and ate enough Pixie sticks.  And he’d gotten a half-smile out of their big sister, which was gratifying because Mercy had been really hard to pull out of her shell.  “Thank you,” she’d said, “for catching the man who killed Dad.”

The thumping continued.

Lassiter came in while Gus was talking with Karen.  She put a hand up to stop the young man mid-sentence and asked, “Where is Sally Stone now?”

“In detainment.  It’s going to be an easy trial.”  He didn’t sound triumphant when he said it.

“Fine,” she said with a distant frown.  “Now Mr. Guster…”

“Where’s Shawn?” Gus demanded, turning to Lassiter without allowing her to finish.  Lassiter glanced at Vick and was met with blank neutrality before eyeing Gus with raised eyebrows.

“You don’t know?  I thought you were his keeper or something.”

Gus’s expression turned aggravated, but he didn’t refute Lassiter’s assertion.  “Of course I don’t!  Why would I—“

“So he’s missing?” cut in the interim Chief smoothly.

“Well no, but yes…!”

“Do you suspect he has been kidnapped?”

“No, of course I don’t—“

“Taken hostage?”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” he asked with an angry sort of snort.

Karen sighed.  “My point, Mr. Guster, is that so far you’ve given me no reason to believe that this is police business.”

“But that’s my point!” he half-yelled, looking extremely frustrated.  “This isn’t police business.  I’m just looking for my friend.  I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.”

Lassiter cut in then because, quite frankly, this was getting ridiculous.  “Spencer isn’t a very reliable person—“

“When was the last time you saw him, Detective?”  Gus demanded before he could complete the sentence.  Lassiter frowned, both because that was extremely rude, and because he was having a hard time remembering exactly when, what with everything that had been going on.

“Uh, 4:00, I believe.”

“3:20,” corrected Gus, expression peeved.

“If you knew,” started Lassiter, arms crossing and face tightening, “Why did you ask me what—“

“That is enough, gentlemen,” broke in Karen, and there was no arguing with that tone.  “What are you getting at Mr. Guster?”

Gus glanced at her, and visibly calmed himself.  “That was when we found out Mercy, Hunter, and Gracie had been murdered.”

[“Sally Stone,” Shawn had whispered, sitting in Vick’s office.  “It was their mother,” but the police hadn’t needed it at that point because though she had been careful with her husband’s murder, she had completely lost it by then and had been found covered in her children’s blood.

Shawn’s expression had gone distant at that point.  “So much for child welfare,” he’d said with a cheeky grin.]

“Yeah,” said Lassiter, expression unimpressed.  “And he seemed so choked up about it too.”  Shawn’s reaction to the children’s murders had circulated the police department and the psychic had lost a lot of favor.

Gus looked angry again.  “Because we all know Shawn thinks before he opens his mouth,” he snapped.  “Do the math, Detective.”  He looked at Lassiter as he was saying it, but shifted his coat angrily when he continued to look unmoved.

“Thank you for your help,” he shot at Karen, slightly calmer, because if there was one thing Gus was, it was polite.  “Is it alright if I ask around the police station?”

She nodded at him and he left the office, sending one last angry glance Lassiter’s way.

“Super,” said Lassiter when Gus had left.  He turned to find Karen frowning thoughtfully at her desk, and he looked incredulous.  “Don’t tell me you’re still jumping on that fake’s little bandwagon?”

Karen’s face said he had crossed a line and Lassiter backtracked immediately.  “But of course that’s your business.”  He left without waiting to see what she would say because that look had already told him he didn’t want to know.

Lassiter stalked down the hall, going straight for the bathroom.  He entered, inadvertently slamming the door against the far wall.  He sighed as it swung back, stopping it with his hand before stepping through.  Still angry then.  He stopped in front of the sinks, already taking off his watch, and splashed cool water onto his face.  He rested his hands on the sink and blew out a long, frustrated breath.  Lassiter left the water running—that way, if anyone came in, he would simply be finishing up washing his hands.

The bathroom near the back of the station, and if anyone ever found out he might actually kill them, was something of a sanctuary.  Few people used it (and when they did it was in-and-out) and it allowed him a few moments to himself.  Lassiter was surrounded, for some inexplicable reason, by a high ratio of women cops, and the bathroom had a men’s sign outside that may as well have said “No Girls Allowed.”

He stood for a few minutes more, taking in the strained face in the mirror (with the strong Irish hairline he thought, then cursed himself for channeling Spencer) then decided it was time to get back to work, ready or not.  This case hadn’t been easy on anyone.  His ire grew suddenly as he reached the door, remembering “So much for child welfare.”  Insensitive, calloused idiot.

Lassiter jerked the door open, and then caught sight of his wrist, devoid of the watch he always wore.  Great.  He didn’t sigh—it wasn’t worth it—just let the door go and turned back to the sinks, watch sitting right where he had left it.  He had reached his watch and was quietly putting it on when the door closed with a quiet “snick.”

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

Lassiter looked up from his watch, eyebrows drawn together in an expression of confusion.  The noise was quiet, but the timing was too bizarre—right when the door had closed.  Lassiter’s eyebrows shot up.  Because whoever it was thought he had left.

Lassiter did nothing to indicate he was still in the room, simply finished tightening his watch and quietly walked toward the source of the noise.  The stalls in this particular bathroom had an odd design—there was space between the floor and the bottom of each stall door, but the walls between each reached all the way to the floor.  It was impossible to see into the empty corner of the bathroom unless you were standing directly in front of it.  He walked towards it, listening to the low thump, thump, thump, and looked into the dimly-lit corner.

It was Spencer.  He had shoved himself into the tiny space between the wall of the end toilet stall and the radiator, knees drawn, eyes closed, and was softly and viciously hitting his head against the wall.

“Spencer!” shouted Lassiter, surprise coloring his words.  “What are you doing!?”

For a brief second Shawn’s eyes popped open, and there was a hiccup in the rhythmic thumping, (and that split-second of startled eyes looking into his own was the only indication Lassiter had that Spencer had been taken by surprise) before he’d closed them again and was back to hitting his head.  Harder.  Because it didn’t matter now and he’d messed up.  Messed up again, messed up like it was the only thing he knew how to do, messed up…

“Spencer!” Lassiter barked.  “Spencer, stop!” and then he did something he’d wanted to do for a very long time, but for completely different reasons.  He grabbed Shawn by the hair, jerked, and forced the fake psychic, whose eyes had flown open at the sudden pain in his scalp, to look at him.  “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

Shawn blinked up at him, and when Lassiter saw that he had his attention, he let go of his hair.

“There were so many tells,” started Shawn, looking at Lassiter, which surprised the older man because he’d expected something like this would have had to have been hacked out of the man with a meat cleaver.

“There were so many tells,” he repeated, looking down.  “Mourning her husband, mourning in perfect stages, like she’d read a textbook, which she didn’t need to do because, hello, duh Shawn, she was a psychologist.  And her convenient excuses.  So convenient.”  He appeared oblivious of the fact that he was supposed to see these things psychically and that Lassiter was supposed to believe he saw these things psychically (which he didn’t anyways, but it was the tradition of the thing).  Lassiter, however, wasn’t paying much attention, more concerned with finding someone—someone meaning Gus—who knew Spencer like he didn’t.

“That’s nice,” he said, trying to get the psychic to his feet.  Shawn seemed insensible to these attempts and continued talking to his knees.

“The way she touched their hair.  So possessive.  Only hers.  But she must’ve realized they were her husband’s too.  Even though he was dead, they were still his because they all had his eyes,” but now Lassiter was listening because what Shawn was saying made perfect, disgusting, twisted sense.

Shawn suddenly broke, looking up at Lassiter.  “Do you know what I said?  Do you know what I said when I heard they had been murdered?”  Lassiter didn’t say anything because yes, of course he’d heard, he’d been standing right there at the time.  But Lassiter wasn’t really sure Spencer was talking to him anymore.

“I said,” and here his voice jumped into a high-pitched mockery of his own, “’So much for child welfare.’”  He laughed hysterically into his hands, and Lassiter watched him worriedly, hand still on Shawn’s shoulder from when he had tried to get him to stand up.

“Why would I say something like that?” and he was looking at Lassiter like he actually had an answer.

Lassiter stared.  What in the world did Spencer expect him to say?  It’s okay?  You’re only human after all, buddy?  I respect you for consistently making an ass out of yourself?  He opened his mouth, closed it.  He took his hand off Shawn’s arm.

He shrugged.  “Because you’re an idiot,” he finally said.

And somehow, because it was honest, because it was Lassiter saying it, it was the right thing to say.

They were silent, then Shawn started speaking again, and he was back to staring at his knees.  As long as he’d stopped with the wild bouts of laughter, Lassiter could live with it.

“Why didn’t I see it?  Why?  Was it because she was pretty?  Because she was nice?  Because she reminded me of Mom?”  Lassiter watched as Shawn’s head teetered dangerously close to the wall, ready to grab his hair again (which, he had to admit, had been kind of fun) before Spencer could resume the self-inflicted head injuring.  Concussing yourself probably wasn’t an accepted form of therapy.  A mere half an hour ago he would have said that concussing Spencer was a great form of therapy, and probably meant it, but somehow, here and now, it wasn’t funny anymore.

As they sat on the floor, the psychic in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest, and the detective crouched in front of the space he had shoved himself into, Lassiter became suddenly aware of another presence, standing to his right.

Lassiter twisted his head to look up and it was Buzz McNabb, standing in the middle of the bathroom, stare glued to the mirror and the reflection of the psychic in it, mouth agape and eyes huge.  Shawn didn’t notice, just kept talking.

“What is wrong with me?  Why do I…”

When Shawn said “I can’t believe I missed it,” and looked up at him, Lassiter was alone and looking at him like he’d heard every word.

“Everybody makes mistakes,” he said, and suddenly it wasn’t Spencer sitting there, it was rookie Carlton with his head in his hands, and his mentor, the toughest cop this side of the North Atlantic dateline, the man who told him time and time again that you couldn’t make mistakes because people would die, was telling him that you couldn’t make mistakes but you would, and sometimes people would die and sometimes they wouldn’t, and really all you could do was your best.

“No,” Shawn said.  “You don’t understand.  I don’t make mistakes.”  Lassiter begged to differ.  “I don’t make mistakes that kill people.”

And Lassiter realized that was the point.  Spencer was wrong, a lot, but he was always right in the end.  Always.  Spencer wasn’t rookie Carlton, and he wasn’t his mentor.  He didn’t understand Spencer at all.

Because Lassiter had never realized Shawn was terrified of failing.

“Who killed the Stone children?” he asked, and Shawn whacked his head against the wall.  Lassiter poked Shawn vehemently on the forehead, forcing his head to stay against the wall.  “Stop.”

“I know where you’re going with this,” said Shawn, head at an awkward angle.  “And it changes nothing.  Sally Stone killed her children, but I let her do it.”

“Yes,” said Lassiter, moving his hand away from Shawn’s face so quickly his head dropped to his chest before he could stop it.  “You screwed up.”

Shawn looked startled.

“We all did,” continued Lassiter, “and because we failed, they died.  But get this through your thick skull,” here he thumped Shawn hard on his forehead, who winced.  “Sally Stone murdered her children.  We did what we could, and today it wasn’t enough.  But tomorrow we’ll do better.”

Shawn was quiet, but suddenly, in the direction of his lap, he cracked a small grin.  He shot a look upwards, catching Lassiter’s eyes.  “Oh, Lassie,” he said.  “Who knew you were a closet optimist?”

Lassiter leaned back in his crouch, shifting on protesting knees, and rolled his eyes.  “Thank God,” he said dryly.  “I’ve brought the jokes back.”

A bark of laughter escaped Shawn and he ran a shaking hand through his hair.

“Hold up,” said Lassiter, frowning.  “Put your hands out.”

Shawn’s eyebrows went up.  “No,” he flatly refused.

Lassiter put a foot out, resting on one knee and moving forward in one quick, smooth motion, grabbing Shawn’s arms before he could protest and pulling them out in front of the startled psychic.  Shawn yanked his hands back to their resting place on his legs, hiding them in his lap defensively, but not before Lassiter saw them tremble.

“When was the last time you ate?” he demanded.

Shawn considered telling Lassie he couldn’t remember, but that would hardly be a point in his favor.  He decided on honesty.  “Breakfast.”

“That had better mean today,” said Lassiter, and knew it didn’t when Shawn grinned widely at him.  “You moron.”

“What does that have to do with anything?  I mean…”

Lassiter ignored Spencer’s blather, something occurring to him.  He reached over and put a hand to Shawn’s forehead.

“What the—“ Shawn spluttered, taken off guard.  He jerked his head away, dodging Lassiter’s hand.  “What was that for?”

“I was checking to see if you were delusional,” he said.  He wiped his hand on his pants.  “You’re not.”

Shawn looked disgruntled.  “I could’ve told you that.”

The look Lassiter gave him was a classic.  The “don’t be an idiot” face.  He got that one a lot.  “Your hands are shaking, you rambled at me for nearly half an hour, none of which actually had anything to do with insulting me, your eyes are bloodshot, there are bags under your eyes—

Sweet justice, Spencer,” he snapped, tone exasperated.  “You were here all night?”  He should’ve realized Spencer hadn’t gone home.  He was wearing yesterday’s clothes and he should’ve noticed sooner because he remembered thinking then what he was thinking now: that a pink undershirt looked really stupid with the lime green top he was wearing over it.

“No it doesn’t,” said Shawn.

“Yes it does,” retorted Lassiter sharply before realizing he’d never actually said what he thought of the ensemble out loud.  He closed his eyes for a second, opening them and looking up at the ceiling as if to ask “why me?”

Shawn grinned.  He’d noticed the way Lassie had looked at his shirt yesterday, and it was the same look he’d gotten a second ago.

“Should I check for concussions too?” demanded Lassiter sarcastically, ignoring the last exchange and pretending he hadn’t reacted to it.  It was really the only thing he could do to keep himself from going mad trying to figure out how Spencer did it.  “Or did you do something other than whack your head against a wall all night?”

Shawn contemplated for a moment.  “I paced once.  I think.”  He smiled, teeth glinting, but Lassiter couldn’t miss the way his eyes kept drooping to half-mast.

Lassiter rolled his eyes.  “Leave, Spencer.”  He stood up, knees groaning, but a couple of quick shakes loosened them.  “Go home.”

Shawn shifted but remained sitting.

“Come on Spencer,” said Lassiter.  “I don’t have all day.”

Shawn grabbed the edge of the radiator with his right hand, but there was no purchase for the other and he struggled unsuccessfully for a moment.  He leaned back against the wall, and in a very quiet and (did Lassiter’s ears deceive him?) embarrassed voice, said, “I can’t.”

The full implication of Shawn sitting in the same position for nearly fourteen hours suddenly hit him and Lassiter moved forward.  He gripped Spencer’s arm and heaved the psychic to his feet.

“Ooh,” said Shawn.  “Little fast.”

Lassiter caught him before he fell, and Shawn hung on his shoulder looking dizzy.  “Okay,” he said, voice faint.  “Just a little light-headed.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes—he’d been doing that a lot lately, he noticed—and steadied the shorter man, pulling his arm more firmly around his shoulders.  He was just starting in on a rather long rant about exactly how much of an idiot Spencer was (and he had a lot of fodder for this particular tirade), when Gus burst through the door.  He caught sight of Shawn immediately.

“You idiot,” he said, but was already drawing Shawn’s arm over his own.  Lassiter gave him up willingly.

“Sorry it took so long,” said Gus, looking at Lassiter.  “I kept looking through the main bathrooms, thinking I must’ve missed something.”

Lassiter looked exasperated.  Leave it to McNabb to tell the frantic man his friend was in a bathroom, but not which one.

“That’s fine,” said Lassiter, and then because Gus was looking at him strangely, added, “Just get him off my hands.”

Shawn mock-sulked, recovering quickly but still having a hard time walking on half-dead legs.  “You know you love me.”  He poofed out his lips in what was arguably the saddest looking pout since Angelina Jolie and gazed at Lassiter with innocently large eyes.

That didn’t honestly require a response, so Lassiter gave it none.  But as the two were parts walking and parts being dragged out (the first being Gus and the second Shawn), Lassiter walked past Gus and very quietly, so that Shawn couldn’t hear, said, “Make sure you give him something to eat before he goes to sleep.”

“I know,” said Gus, pausing in his awkward walk toward the door.  They locked gazes, and in that moment they were two men worried about a friend.

“Gus,” whined Shawn.  “These legs don’t walk on their own, you know.”

Gus rolled his eyes and the moment was broken.  Lassiter watched them walk away.

“What was that all about?” came O’Hara’s voice as she strode up to her senior partner.

“That…” started Lassiter, and then stopped as Gus’s voice interrupted his own.

“Dammit, Shawn, I told you not to do this to yourself.”  Shawn’s reply was lost as they disappeared into the bright California sunlight.  It must’ve been good though, because the last sight they had of the men was an irritated Gus smacking his friend on the upside of his head.

“That…” he tried again, and then paused.  He thought about the conversation, the naked vulnerability on Spencer’s face, of the weakness that few people had ever seen, on the way he had joked with Spencer without wanting to kill him, and almost smiled.  Juliet looked at him expectantly, quietly prompting him to go on.

“…was absolutely nothing,” he finished.  “Don’t you have work to do?”

And smiling, he followed her retreating back down the hall.