Author's Note: This is my first "Murder, She Wrote" fic, and I hope it does the characters justice. Have you noticed that Jessica seems to just go, go, go, and she doesn't slow down at all no matter what's going on in her personal life? Well, this fic was inspired by the thought that eventually, that kind of lifestyle will inevitably catch up to her. I hope you enjoy. As always, I own nothing, and I welcome constructive criticism.

"…so you see, Amos, it can't have been Jason Agarwall, because he's left handed! The stab wound was clearly delivered from the front, and it was on Chester Sanders' left side – but if the two were facing each other, then a stab to the left side would had to have been delivered by a right handed assailant."

"Yes, ma'am," Sheriff Amos Tupper agreed thoughtfully. "But if it wasn't Agarwall, then who was it?"

"I'm still working on that," Jessica Fletcher admitted after a slight pause, a hint of frustration coloring her tone. The solution to Cabot Cove's latest murder was right there on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't quite reach it. There was something, some elusive small detail, that prevented her from identifying a specific suspect. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she had a feeling that she was missing something that should've been blatantly obvious. She'd been rather distracted of late.

Of course, anyone would excuse her distraction, if they stopped to consider the reason for it. She'd been midway through the final chapter of her latest book when the murder had occurred, and although she hadn't wanted to get involved, Amos had asked for her help. The book was due to her publisher for editing as soon as tomorrow morning, giving her less than 20 hours to finish it. And then she still had to do a read-through to ensure that the plot flowed correctly before she turned it in. Although she'd been well ahead of schedule a week ago when Amos had first called asking for her help, now she was desperately behind – both on her book, and on her sleep. She hadn't slept last night because she'd spent the better part of the evening in the town jail trying to convince Amos that Jason Agarwall was the wrong man, and she'd gotten very little sleep the night before due to a line of severe thunderstorms which had knocked out the power. On top of this, it was nearing the anniversary of her late husband Frank's death, and although Jessica had long since come to terms with the loss, she found that the few weeks immediately before and after that date brought with them a profound sense of emptiness that made it hard to socialize, eat, sleep, or even write. In other words, as is usually the case with life, the murder investigation and the book deadline had come at exactly the wrong time.

Now she found herself sitting in the diner with the sheriff, nursing a cup of coffee while Amos scarfed down a short stack slathered in (in Jessica's humble opinion) far too much syrup. It was Sunday morning. Church had just gotten out, and it seemed half the town of Cabot Cove was present in the too-crowded diner. Jessica was normally very social, but today, if she was being honest, all she wanted to do was to go home, lock the door, disconnect the telephone, and sit in front of her typewriter for the next 12 hours or so.

It was with a jolt that Jessica suddenly realized that Amos was talking, and that she'd missed some of what he was saying.

"….and honestly, ma'am, if it wasn't Agarwall, it had to be Agarwall's son. You know how much he resented Chester Sanders, after Mr. Sanders married his mother. It was quite the scandal when it happened, y'know; that kind of thing, it can make a man hold a grudge, if y'know what I mean."

"Carter Agarwall?!" Jessica exclaimed in disbelief. Then she pursed her lips, considering. It took her about three seconds to make up her mind. "No, Amos," Jessica said, with a shake of her head. "Chester Sanders was six-foot-two, about the same height as Jason Agarwall, although we've already established that it wasn't Jason because he's left-handed. But Carter Agarwall, although right-handed, is five-foot-six."

"….So?" Amos asked, and Jessica resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Amos," she said, "The stab wound was in the left side of Sanders' chest, above his heart, and it came from straight on. Not from above, and not from below. If Carter and Chester had had an altercation of some kind, the natural motion of a knife would be somewhat upwards, above Carter's eye level. And we know that Chester was stabbed while standing, not while sitting, because the stab wound wasn't angled downward, as it would have been if he'd been sitting. So it couldn't have been Carter."

"I see," Amos said slowly. "So we're looking for a right-handed killer, probably between about five-foot ten or eleven, and six-foot-four?"

"Most likely," Jessica agreed, trying not to sound surprised that Amos had put this together this quickly.

"But, Ms. Fletcher, if you'll pardon my asking, which possible suspects fit that description?" Amos asked, sounding stumped. Jessica frowned. None of them. Clearly, she was still missing something.

"Amos, I think we need to go back to the scene," she said, half-rising from her chair.

"What, now?" Amos asked, incredulous. Jessica paused.

"Well, why not now?"

"Ms. Fletcher, we haven't finished breakfast yet!"

"…Oh," Jessica said, surprised to find that her own breakfast – plain, buttered toast – lay uneaten on her plate. In truth, she hadn't even noticed its arrival, despite the fact that her companion was already two pancakes in and had long since finished his bacon. The mystery writer sank back into her seat, accepting the refill that the passing waitress offered for her coffee.

As if he, too, had also just taken note of this fact, the sheriff tipped his head in the writer's direction inquisitively as he speared another piece of pancake.

"And speaking of breakfasts that haven't been eaten, aren't you hungry, ma'am?"

"Jessica! Amos!" A deep, rumbling voice greeted cheerfully, sparing Jessica the trouble of explaining that, no, she wasn't hungry.

"Seth!" she greeted, cheerfully, smiling up at her other long-time friend.

"Doc," Amos said, reflexively clearing a place at the table so that the gray-haired small town doctor could sit.

"It's good to see you, Seth," Jessica said, as if she hadn't seen her friend in weeks, and Seth chuckled.

"Jessica, we saw each other at the market yesterday," the doctor smiled, nonetheless reaching out and squeezing the author's arm in camaraderie.

The waitress came over long enough to take Seth's order and then disappeared again, leaving Amos to finish his pancakes while the other two sat silently. Jessica took another sip of her coffee.

"Ms. Fletcher, are you intending to eat that toast?" Amos asked, half hopeful. Jessica laughed.

"Have it, Amos," she said. "I insist." She pushed the plate in the sheriff's direction. Amos wasn't known for his observational skills, so it was no surprise to Jessica that he didn't notice the concerned, curious look that Seth shot in her direction as the doctor took this in. Jessica didn't respond, merely pursed her lips and glanced down at the table.

"Here ya go, Doc," the waitress said suddenly, and Jessica was glad she didn't spook easily. She hadn't even noticed the young woman's approach.

"Thank you," Seth said, moving out of the way so she could place his plate on the table.

"Coffee refill?"

"Ayup."

"You, too, Ms. Fletcher?"

"Oh, yes, please," Jessica answered. The waitress refilled her cup again, and as she walked away Jessica realized that this time she was on the receiving end of not one, but two incredulous stares.

"Is there something on my face?" the writer asked, confused. Seth and Amos exchanged a look.

"Uh, Ms. Fletcher, pardon the observation, but this is your third cup of coffee this morning. Ma'am, you don't usually drink coffee a'tall, let alone three cups in one sitting," Amos said.

Jessica surprised herself by becoming irritated at this, though outwardly she didn't display any trace of her sudden anger on her face.

"Well, Amos, I guess I just decided to shake things up a little," she said. The sheriff and the doctor let the matter drop, and Jessica's irritation flared out as quickly as it had come. "So, can we go back to the crime scene now?"

"What do you want to go back there for?" Seth asked, cutting Amos off.

"Well, because obviously I'm missing something, Seth, and I think going back to the scene with a fresh mind will let me reevaluate the situation."

"What situation? I though you already arrested someone, Amos?" Seth asked, confused. Jessica pursed her lips. Amos sighed.

"I arrested Jason Agarwall, yes, but Ms. Fletcher just spent half the night and most of the morning explaining to me why Jason Agarwall couldn't have been the murderer."

"No?" Seth asked. The news had already made its way through Cabot Cove's gossip chain that Jason Agarwall had been caught with the knife in hand. Seth knew that this wasn't the case; he'd been the one to examine the body (knife still embedded within), but he also knew that gossip would be a hard thing for Jason Agarwall to overcome.

"No," Jessica said. "As I told Amos, Chester was killed by someone about his own height, and right-handed. Jason Agarwall is left-handed, and the fact that Carter Agarwall is so much shorter than Chester rules him out as a suspect too."

"Far be it from me to argue with you, Jess," Seth said.

"So, Amos, back to the crime scene?"

"If you can wait another five minutes, I'll join you," Seth said.

"Since when do you go poking around crime scenes, Doc?" Amos asked curiously. Seth shrugged.

"It's Sunday. The office is closed, unless of course I get a house call. I've got nothing better to do. And it is an interesting case."

"Oh, well, I suppose we can wait for you, Seth," Jessica said, although in truth she was anxious to get out of the diner, solve the murder, and get back to her typewriter. The thought of her book deadline was beginning to weigh heavily on her. As was the lack of sleep.

Seth must have sensed his friend's anxiety, because he finished eating in double time. Amos shot down all of Jessica's attempts to pay the bill, and then together the three clambered into Amos' vehicle.

The drive to the crime scene, on the outskirts of Cabot Cove (which, as is the case in many small towns, took only a few minutes), was silent. Jessica used the short time to close her eyes. She'd once read something in a magazine – a factoid that closing your eyes for 20 minutes, even if you didn't sleep, could be enough to restore you and give you energy as if you'd actually spent a few hours napping. She very much doubted if it was true, and she certainly didn't have 20 minutes, but she felt it was worth it to try.

To her surprise, she was almost asleep by the time Amos pulled the car over on the side of the road three minutes later.

"Well, Jess, I don't know what you expect to find here, but let's get to it," Seth said from the back seat, and Jessica dragged her eyelids open with effort. Climbing out of the car, the three friends combed over the crime scene, none of them quite sure what Jessica was looking for, but just trusting her to know it when she found it. Jessica noticed their increasing fidgetiness as the time passed, and ignored it, although deep down she was feeling the same. She didn't have time to be searching a days-old crime scene for heaven-only-knew-what; she had a book to finish. As it was, she was sure that tonight would have to be another sleepless night if she was to get her book out to her publisher on time. She was starting to think that even if she stayed at her typewriter all night she wouldn't finish, and she tried to ignore the spike of anxiety that surged through her system. In all her years as a writer, she'd never missed a deadline yet. Surely her publisher would understand.

Finally, Seth sighed.

"Jess, it's been two hours. Do you think you're going to find what it is that you're looking for?"

"Oh, heavens… has it really?" Jessica asked, alarmed. Seth and Amos made their way over to their friend, who was starting to realize how hot and sweaty she actually was. And tired. Standing in the sun in a long-sleeved sweater in the middle of July probably wasn't the best idea. Even as the thought crossed her mind, her vision went black momentarily.

"Yes, ma'am," Amos confirmed grimly. "if you don't mind my saying so, maybe you're just too tired to think properly right now. After all, you did stay up all night at the jail."

Jessica was loath to admit it, but she had a sneaking suspicion that Amos was right. And he didn't even know that last night had actually been her second all-nighter. She locked eyes with Seth, who was looking at her in barely-masked concern again.

"Perhaps it would be best to think it over and come back tomorrow," she agreed slowly, knowing as she said it that she was sacrificing yet another day of restful recuperation. Her stomach rumbled slightly, and she realized she wasn't sure if she was hungry or nauseous. When was the last meal she'd eaten? She couldn't quite remember. "At this point, I don't think I'm going to find what I'm looking for, and anyway it will allow me to get back to my novel." Amos nodded in enthusiastic agreement. The three began to make the short trek back to the car. Amos and Seth both noticed when Jessica stumbled slightly, though neither commented. Casually, as if they were just out for one of their usual morning strolls, Seth grabbed Jessica by the elbow and steered her gently towards the car.

"Jessica, I can't help but notice that you're looking rather pale," Seth stated softly, finding the fine line between allowing Amos to hear his concerns while also trying to give his friend a semblance of privacy. Sure enough, the sheriff paused in his step and looked sharply over at Jessica, eyebrows pulling down as he took in her face.

"Oh, Seth, I'm fine," Jessica shook off his concern, knowing as she said it that her two closest friends were not going to let the subject rest. Part of her resented their meddling, but the larger part of her was touched that her friends cared so much for her. Contrary to her flippant tone of voice, however, she did not shake off the arm that was very clearly meant to provide support.

"Tell you what, Ms. Fletcher, why don't we go get something to eat?"

"Amos, don't tell me you're hungry!" Jessica exclaimed. Seth laughed.

"Not a'tall, ma'am, but you didn't eat breakfast, and I didn't see you eat dinner last night, either," Amos said. At this, Jessica paused, halting mid-step as she shot Amos a betrayed look. Seth stopped too, looking at the writer sternly.

"Jess? That true?" the doctor asked, and Jessica felt like a scolded child.

"Actually, Amos, I believe you're right," she admitted. She did not, however, admit that she hadn't eaten anything yesterday morning, either.

"Lunch it is," Seth stated, and his tone brokered no room for argument.

They had reached the car by now, and Seth, ever the gentleman, opened the door and gently ushered Jessica inside. He closed the door crisply behind her, sliding into the back seat. Amos wordlessly fired up the engine.

"Remind me, Jessica," the doctor started, his deep, rumbling voice causing the writer to relax against the seat. "When's that book of yours supposed to be done, anyway?"

"Actually, Seth, the first draft is due to my agent in the morning," Jessica admitted, and even to her own ears the words sounded dull.

"Don't sound too excited about it, ma'am," Amos, lacking tact as usual, stated. Seth snorted in the backseat, and Jessica couldn't quite find the energy to deny the sheriff's words.

"You know, Amos, usually I want nothing more than to sit down and write a new book. The ideas just keep flowing, and they won't leave me alone until I get them out on paper."

"Not this time, though, ma'am?" Amos asked, catching her use of the word 'usually'.

Jessica paused, wondering whether she should be truthful. In the end it was Seth, leaning forward and putting a hand on her shoulder questioningly, that prompted her to answer. She sighed softly, admitting the truth that she had, to this point, been unwilling to admit even to herself:

"The timing is terrible," she said softly, speaking in unusually blunt terms. "Why the publisher needed the book at this time of the year, I don't understand."

Neither Amos nor Seth needed further context to know what that meant, and Jessica caught the furtive look that the sheriff sent the doctor's way in the rearview mirror.

"Jess, you can always tell them you need some more time," Seth said cautiously, not wanting to trigger his best friend's fiery temper. Jessica shook her head once.

"Now, Seth, I can't do that, and you know it." Jessica wouldn't admit that it was a matter of pride, but her friends already knew it. This time she caught the amused glance Amos sent back at Seth. Her lip twitched in a half-smile, half-scowl. She loved her friends, but they didn't understand what it was to be a writer; how it wasn't like a normal nine-to-five job. As much as she loved writing, sometimes she hated writing to a deadline. Deadlines hampered her creativity; they took the fun out of her work. They exhausted her. Jessica had to take a deep breath, reminding herself yet again that she was midway through the final chapter. It wasn't like she had a lot left to write; she could button it up in a matter of hours, and then skim the story quickly and make sure it flowed properly. It may not be her highest quality of work, but it was a first draft. The publisher didn't expect perfection, and even if she delivered what she believed to be a perfect work, she knew from ample experience that it would come back to her with more than a few suggested revisions. She tried not to think of the fact that the last chapter was often the hardest to write.

"No, ma'am, I suppose not," Amos said, managing to sound only slightly patronizing.

By this time the car had pulled back into town again, and for lack of other ideas, Amos pulled into the same parking space at the same diner the trio had just left hours earlier. Jessica felt her stomach grumble in anticipation.

"Very original, Amos," Seth sniped, but there was no heat in his words, and everyone exited the car without complaint. The brunch crowd had long since cleared out, and the trio got a table immediately. It was a different waitress who came to their assistance this time.

"What'll it be for you, Ms. Fletcher?" the waitress asked. Jessica, who had intended to order a small salad, was irritated when Seth cut in.

"We'll all have the steak special, thank you," the doctor said, and the waitress brought a round of coffee and water for everyone before departing again, leaving them to their conversation.

"So, Ms. Fletcher, begging your pardon, but I find myself curious. What's this new story of yours about?"

Jessica, who couldn't recall a time that the sheriff had ever asked her about one of her novels, arched an eyebrow as she brought her coffee mug to her lips.

"Well," she said with less than her usual enthusiasm, "If you must know, it's about a young woman who marries the love of her life, and they buy their dream home, only to find a skeleton in the garden years after they've moved in. But who do the bones belong to? And how long have they been there?"

Seth and Amos looked at the writer expectantly, and Jessica glanced back and forth between the two.

"Uh, well… gee, ma'am, I'm not sure," Amos said seriously. Seth shook his head once.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell us," the doctor said, thinking Jessica was just stringing them along. The writer deflated visibly, shoulders hunching, eyes darting down to her coffee cup which was now almost empty.

"Actually," she admitted, "The bones belong to the husband's first wife, and they'd been there for ten years… exactly ten years, because that's where the husband put them after he killed her and then sold the house, and that's where they stayed until he purchased the house again under a different name with his new wife."

"Sounds like a perfectly scary Jessica Fletcher novel to me," Seth said supportively. Jessica, if possible, deflated even more.

"Except it's the silliest thing I've ever written in my life," the mystery writer said. The doctor and the sheriff exchanged confused glances.

"Ms. Fletcher, it sounds good to me," Amos said carefully. Jessica shook her head.

"How much more do you have to write?" the doctor said, changing the subject when he couldn't come up with a suitable answer to Jessica's uncharacteristic moping.

"Just half a chapter," Jessica said, relief sleeping into her tone. "But it'll take me a week, at this rate, if I keep getting interrupted."

It came out more harshly than she intended, and she and Amos flinched simultaneously.

"Sorry, ma'am," the sheriff started, and Jessica didn't have time to open her mouth and explain that she wasn't upset with him, wasn't poking fun at his crime solving skills, when they were interrupted by the waitress delivering three steak specials.

Despite the hunger she'd been feeling out at the crime scene, Jessica couldn't bring herself to take a bite. Seth glared disapprovingly as Jessica pushed food around her plate with her fork. The woman eventually caved to his pleading glance and swallowed down a forkful of rice, but that was all she managed. Amos cleaned his plate, of course, but the sheriff eyed hers in concern when he realized she hadn't eaten anything.

"Jessica," Seth scolded disapprovingly, and the writer shook her head once more. Jessica knew what that tone of voice meant: it meant that the doctor in Seth was most displeased, and that now Amos was her only buffer against a patented Seth Hazlitt lecture.

Awkward silence enveloped the trio. Eventually Amos cleared his throat.

"Well, ma'am, Doc, it was nice to see you both, but I've got to be getting back to the office… Gotta finish some paperwork, and hopefully figure out who actually committed this crime. Ms. Fletcher, I hope you get your book finished on time."

"See you soon, Amos. I'll ring the station first thing in the morning," Jessica said, while Seth nodded his head in a friendly goodbye.

"Drive you back home, Jess?" Seth asked after he paid the bill, and it was with slight trepidation that Jessica rose from her seat and followed her best friend outside to his car.

"Jessica," the doctor paused, shaking his head. "I hate to bridge the gap between friendship and professional concern, especially when you haven't asked… but I wasn't kidding earlier when I said you were looking pale, and I saw you stumble out there at the crime scene. Are you feeling alright?"

"I feel fine, Seth," Jessica lied. "Just worried about finishing this novel." That much, at least, was only half untrue.

The writer expected an argument, but Seth surprised her by sighing heavily and nodding. "I suppose that's fair," the man said. "Jess, make sure you eat something, okay?"

They pulled up to Jessica's house, and the writer climbed out of the car with a vague acknowledgment. Before long she was seated at her typewriter once again, immersed in rereading her story one final time. For all her griping earlier, she had to admit that she was proud of her work; she didn't think it would be the best-selling novel she'd ever written, but she knew it was definitely in her top five.

She was shocked to find that it was well after two in the morning when she next looked at the clock. But, at last, she was done. The novel was finished.

Stretching mightily, she allowed a massive, unladylike yawn to escape her. After all, she was in the privacy of her own home, and there was nobody around to see her. The novelist stood wearily, shaking out her wrists and elbows – she'd been bent over the table for so long that she felt stiff everywhere above the waist. She stood too quickly, however, and the room spun around her. She had to grab onto the back of her chair to keep herself upright. It occurred to her that she'd forgotten to eat, and she entertained the idea of cooking. But her eyelids were too heavy. Even blinking presented a challenge, because it got progressively harder to fight the lead weights on her eyelids each time. There was no way she'd be able to stay awake long enough to cook and then eat a meal; she needed to lie down.

Jessica dragged herself into the powder room to freshen up. That done, she drew her nightgown over her head, made her way to her bedroom, and was asleep before she'd finished pulling the covers up over her shoulders.

She was awoken some indeterminate time later by the sense that something was not quite right. Her eyes flew open in shock, and as she looked around her bedroom wildly, for a moment she could not determine what had shaken her from her deep sleep. And then she blinked, and the mystery writer in her was already gathering clues and drawing conclusions. Daylight was streaming through her curtains, but Jessica was momentarily confused to note that the light was not coming from the correct angle. She was normally up and moving by eight in the morning at the latest, when the shadows were near the head of her bed – but now, the shadows were across the bedroom, by the dresser, and the head of her bed was bathed in yellow sunlight. She had to blink against the brightness of it. There were other things amiss, too – she had the sense that she had slept for a very, very long time, but she had a terrible headache and still felt rather fatigued. Almost… well, almost faint, though the thought passed through her mind and was quickly dismissed. Jessica Fletcher, after all, did not faint.

There was also the sense that she'd forgotten something… what had she forgotten? She quickly did a mental rewind on the previous day, remembering the finished novel that needed to be sent in to the publisher, and the murder investigation.

Amos. She'd promised to get up early and call Amos.

She was already reaching for the telephone on her bedside table when she heard a sharp knock at her closed bedroom door. She suddenly remembered hearing it just moments before, and she immediately knew that this was what had woken her. The knocking did not startle her; it could be only one of two people. Anyone with nefarious intentions wouldn't bother to knock.

"Jess?" Seth's tenor voice called out to her through the wood. "You awake in there?"

Yes, she started to say, but the word wouldn't come – she became suddenly aware of how totally parched she was. Her mouth and throat were so dry that it was almost painful. Jessica noticed with disappointment that the water glass she usually kept at her bedside was not there, and it dawned on her that she'd been so tired when she'd finished writing that she hadn't even thought about her usual bedtime routine. The writer tried clearing her throat.

"Maybe she's not there, Doc," Jessica heard Amos say, and she smiled despite the discomfort in her throat and head as she imagined the look that Seth would now be sending the sheriff's way.

"Where else would she be, Amos?" Seth groused. "She's not downstairs, she's not at the station, and she hasn't been anywhere else in town, either. She's in there."

"Hmm," Jessica heard Amos agree. The sheriff cleared his throat, and Jessica shrugged the covers off and sat at the edge of her bed, looking around for her slippers. "Well, Doc, maybe she's sick!"

"Really, Amos?" Seth asked, and Jessica sniffed a laugh at the long, drawn-out syllables, the tone of the words saying what the doctor was too polite to voice aloud: duh, you idiot. Jessica heard the unspoken message, but she was quite positive that Amos did not.

"Must be!" Amos continued, oblivious to his friend's sarcasm. "After all, tis not like Ms. Fletcher to lie around in bed until four o'clock in the evening. Not when there's a murder investigation! And what about that novel she was finishing?"

By now, Jessica had donned her slippers and was adjusting her nightgown. She had to stand still for a moment to compensate for the drop in blood pressure that occurred as she rose from the bed. Then she started. Had she correctly heard Amos state that it was four o'clock in the evening?!

"Why, Amos! I do believe you're probably right," Seth said, voice muffled through the door, and still the sheriff missed the sarcastic tone.

"Doc, you'd better go in there, then," Amos commented. Jessica shook her head once, beelining for the door.

"You don't say," Seth deadpanned, and Jessica reached the door right as Seth started to turn the handle. The trio stood in silence for a moment, Amos regarding the writer with surprise and Seth with concern while Jessica started back at the two impassively.

"Good morning," Jessica finally greeted around a terrible rasp, forgetting the time of day, at the same time as Amos blushed, stammering,

"Pardon us, Ms. Fletcher – we didn't mean to wake you."

There was a beat of somewhat awkward silence. Seth, diplomatically, was the one to break it.

"It's hardly morning, Jess. It's a quarter past four in the afternoon. Amos missed you at the police station this morning – expected you to call about the investigation first thing. When he called me 'round three to tell me you still hadn't phoned him, I figured we'd best come see how the novel is coming along."

Jessica opened her mouth to reply, but all that came out was a hoarse 'hnggg' sound. Her throat was just so dry.

Seth's eyes narrowed.

"Amos, why don't you go get a glass of water for Jessica?" the doctor suggested cheerfully. The sheriff didn't need to be asked twice as he turned tail and disappeared down the stairs. "Jess! You look like death warmed over."

Jessica knew better than to try to argue given the state of her parched throat. The author swayed on her feet, and for the second time in two days Seth reached out a casual hand to keep her upright, making it seem as though he were merely offering her his arm for a polite, friendly walk. By the time Jessica's equilibrium had sufficiently recovered, Seth had steered her halfway back to her bed. The doctor was just assisting her to sit on the edge of the mattress when Amos returned, tall glass of cool water in hand. Jessica snatched it from him immediately, ignoring Seth's warning to take it slowly. She downed the whole glass in one breath. The sheriff and the doctor watched with matching frowns.

"Ms. Fletcher, it's as if you haven't had a drink in days!" Amos commented, and Jessica frowned. Besides coffee, she realized this was essentially true. The doctor read this thought on her face and clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

"Sheriff," he commanded gently, "Do us a favor and grab some more water, okay? And give us a moment?"

The doctor waited until Amos disappeared down the stairs again before he turned his inquisitive gaze on his best friend. He picked up her hand in one of his own, and the author watched as the doctor gently pinched the skin on the back of her slender hand. His grip shifted to her wrist, and Jessica watched his face as he stared at his pocket watch, counting her pulse. The novelist surmised that he was unhappy with whatever he discovered, because she watched as the muscle in her friend's jaw twitched the way it tended to do when he was using irritation as a front for intense concern. Sensing her gaze, Seth looked up from his watch, catching her eyes and glaring at her. Jessica cowered under the look.

"Did you eat any dinner last night?" Was all the doctor asked, and Jessica froze; no, she hadn't, and now that she thought about it, that easily explained why she was so unsteady on her feet. She hadn't had a real meal in days; hadn't had anything besides coffee, either. She was dehydrated and weak, and she was embarrassed to find herself in such a state. She knew better.

"…Seth, by the time I finished my novel, I was so tired that I just came straight to bed," Jessica admitted, glancing down at the floor. She noticed as she did that Seth's black bag was sitting on the floor at his feet, and she wondered how she hadn't noticed it before. She frowned in embarrassment when she realized that Seth must have expected to find her like this – while he carried his bag in his car at all times, he never bothered to bring it inside for a purely social visit. And then a thought hit her. "My novel! Oh, no! I was supposed to send the first draft in to my publisher today – my agent – I have to call my agent!"

Dr. Hazlitt caught her hands as they reached frantically for the telephone.

"You have to do nothing of the kind," he told her firmly. "You're going to get back into this bed, and you're going to lay here and drink the water Amos is bringing for you, and then he and I are going to fix you some dinner."

"But, Seth –"

As if she hadn't spoken, he interrupted, "And then, only when you're adequately rehydrated and fed, are you going to come back up to this bed and go to sleep. I'll sedate you if I have to. There will be no talk about novels, or deadlines, or crime scenes, or murder investigations. Jess, you may be my closest friend, but I also happen to be your doctor, and you are my patient. Consider this a medical order."

"Seth, that's hardly –" But Jessica hadn't even stood before Seth placed a hand on her shoulder to force her to sit again, and then that hand pushed her into a supine position. Jessica stared at the ceiling, an unhappy frown on her face.

"No arguments, my dear. You're lucky that I'm not insisting on an IV – and I'm only just not insisting." Jessica knew her friend well enough to register the truth of his words, and she sighed heavily, but did not protest further.

"Amos, we're ready for that water, now," Seth called slightly louder than the conversational tone he'd taken with Jessica, and Amos appeared from the hallway. The sheriff offered her the glass, and this time Jessica heeded their advice to sip slowly. The water felt good in her dry, painful mouth, and as she licked her lips to moisten them she realized they were cracked. The two men watched her for a moment, and then as one they disappeared down the stairs. Jessica listened to the clatter of dishes in the kitchen for a while, but then she was hit with a surprise wave of fatigue, and she allowed herself to drift.

It was five-thirty when Seth's cool, assessing touch woke her. He knew that she was awake, and she knew that he knew, but they both pretended otherwise – it wasn't often that Seth became her doctor, and on the occasions that he did, it wasn't exactly a comfortable feeling for either of them. So Jessica suffered through the mini-exam as Seth checked her vital signs and skin turgor again, unmoving. Then Seth gently shook her, making a show of waking her – and she stirred, making a show of waking up.

"Jess," he murmured, "We've got dinner ready for you. Pasta with butter, biscuits, and some baked chicken. It's pretty bland, but that's probably what you need after going so long without food."

"It sounds perfect, Seth," she said, and she meant it. She allowed him to help her up, accepting the hand on her elbow in case she swayed, but she didn't. He helped her find her slippers, and they made for the door. They entered the hallway and suddenly they were friends again, the dynamic between them shifting quickly and easily.

Amos was just finishing setting the table, and Jessica found a large helping of food already sitting on her plate. She smiled at her friend's thoughtfulness.

"Thanks, Amos, Seth. This smells wonderful." She took a bite of the pasta. "And it tastes wonderful, too."

The friends ate in amicable silence, Jessica smiling each time one of the men refilled her water glass for her. They were pushing fluids faster than she could take them in, but she appreciated the gesture. She knew deep down that she'd scared them both, and in truth it scared her, too, that she'd allowed herself to become so weak. She'd let everyone down: her publisher, herself, Amos, Seth, the murder victim. It wasn't a good feeling.

"Ms. Fletcher," Amos said, when the plates had been cleared away and the three had retired to the sitting room. The sheriff looked markedly uncomfortable, blushing and rubbing the back of his neck, but he boldly pressed on. "Ms. Fletcher, forgive me for overstepping, but you mean a lot to a lot of people around here. And Doc and I – and lots of others – we're your friends. And we know you're having a tough time right now, what with it being that time of the year; and we know the novel deadline, and of course the murder didn't help. But… Ms. Fletcher, why didn't you reach out for help? Any of us would be happy to drop everything and help you, you know? If you'd needed to sleep, or work on your novel, or take time to yourself, we would've understood. As much as I appreciate your help in solving some of the cases that turn up around here, it's not your job – it's mine, and I don't expect you to do it for me, ma'am."

"Ayup," Seth agreed softly.

"Oh, Amos… I think I just… I'm so used to doing things on my own, and I have a hard time slowing down sometimes."

"That's the truth, Jess," Seth agreed softly. "But it's okay to slow down. Like Amos said, we're your friends; we're here to help you. It hurts us to see you in the condition we found you in, my dear."

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," Jessica said, and she meant it. "I… I promise I'll try to do better next time. If I start to feel overwhelmed, I'll try to reach out."

And they all knew that there would be a next time, but they also all knew that they'd be there for each other through it.

Jessica did sleep through that night, no sedative needed, and in the morning she woke with the name of the murderer springing from her tongue. Her publisher was more than understanding – she was only one day late, after all. And Seth and Amos allowed Jessica to mourn in privacy, offering solidarity through their silent presence during the quiet July afternoons and evenings in Cabot Cove.

The End.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave a review. Tell me how I did with these characters, who were more of a challenge to write than I expected. Thanks for reading!