A/N: The deal with this one, I had it almost totally written and then had a mini-epiphany and realized that it simply wasn't good enough for you guys and I re-wrote well…all of it. I do that sometimes. But I hope you guys enjoy this much better version.

And last thing, as an author there is a bit where I'm going to fail you guys, see Shawn would have been like ten or eleven when I was born so a lot of the references they make I can understand but won't come to me as readily so I'm trying to keep up the eighties love but if I don't see the opportunities feel free to let me know.

Disclaimer: I don't own what you recognize.

Chapter Eight: Expired Warranties and Quarter-Hearted Guarantees

He's not ready he realizes when the pounding on the door starts. He's not ready because he doesn't know and how could he not know and there's this constant pain shooting through his head and he has these stitches and this swept apartment and it's all so dangerous and not alright and he's not ready.

He regrets ever picking up the phone, maybe he should have run, should have found a place, a safe place and tried to reconstruct memories before deciding to involve the law. What if he was some kind of something he shouldn't be and all he had done was lead the cops right to his door. The door. Not his door. Could be his door. Isn't his door. Door.

What if the person that had done this to him was waiting on the other side? What if he had just painted a target on his back? What if they could find him all over again and? What if… He felt the panic start to rise higher and higher and the pain climbed on its heels. It was like he was almost on the edge of something that might matter and his mind couldn't see it through the haze of piercing pain.

His knees started to give way again. He couldn't handle all of this. He shouldn't have called them, he should have given himself more time but the not knowing was eating at him-and he had some serious curiosity issues to begin with he could tell without being exacerbated by knowing absolutely nothing-and now his head, his head, his… he couldn't, it wasn't it…

He wanted to run, he needed to run, as if he was suddenly claustrophobic and couldn't breathe in so small a space. He needed to get out of here. Except his legs weren't working and they were still pounding on the door and now the handle was jiggling and he couldn't catch his breath. He needed to run. Now.

"Detective." God that voice sounded familiar. "Detective." It whispered again and her stomach turned. "Tsk. Tsk. Sleeping on the job. What would your superiors think?" Something cold…so cold…

Her eyes snapped open, wild and terrified. She knew why that voice was familiar now. "It's you." She spit out.

"It has always been me detective." The voice answered, still disembodied.

"Well you're a little late. Spencer's been missing for weeks. And Jenny died five years ago." She shot back to the dark, trying to sound defiant.

"No she didn't! I know you're lying!" Sophia could hear the anger at her implication. "You are all liars. Such sweet innocent things that always grow into lies. That's why I had to save her." Suddenly the light flicked on and here he was in front of her. Every bit the monster she remembered. "I will save her! You can't stop me!"

Reyes flinched. "Well…then…" She searched for an out, any out. "Maybe, maybe I could help you then. Right?" She hated that her voice shook. "I could help you find her. I'm a cop I could-"

He grinned then and her heart stopped. "Oh detective. Why do you think you I brought here?" He moved too close to her. "You already are."

She didn't get the chance to scream very much. He's a little disappointed.

"O'Hara move." Carlton gestured to the side of the door she had been trying to open by sheer force of desperation. It wasn't working. When she was clear he lifted one long leg and slammed his foot with all the strength he could muster right above the handle and lock. It took another solid kick before the door jam on the other side split.

Protocol dictates that he takes point and he's glad that O'Hara remembered that even given the circumstance. They both draw their sidearm and enter, wary and tense with nervous energy. It's been seven weeks, seven weeks and now it's all come down to a decidedly Spencer 911 call and this apartment. Except none of it has made any sense. If Spencer were in decent enough shape to dial a phone why did he call the EMTs? Why not them directly? Or Guster? Something was very off about the whole thing.

They cleared the kitchen and then the living room; both were absent of their missing resident pain-in-the-ass. He started to wonder if this was all another elaborate set-up before the eventual letdown. His partner might not be able to take another failed lead and Guster and Henry were…

There was clattering in the bathroom. His eyes met O'Hara's and she understood. He waited for her fingers to wrap around the handle of the door, positioning himself directly in front of it before giving her the go-ahead. His gun almost slipped from his grip when it swung open.

There in the middle of the tiled floor was an unconscious Shawn Spencer, about ten pounds too thin, missing inches of his deified locks and sporting proficient surgical seams, stark and black against his scalp. He felt his stomach protest against that lunch he didn't have and allowed for falling to his knees next to the younger man. O'Hara was still standing in the doorway shell-shocked.

"Carlton…" She whispered. And he knew. He didn't want to know. He wanted to pretend he didn't, that he couldn't begin to understand. He had wished maiming on Spencer more times than even he wanted to count but that was always with him doing the maiming. At the end of the day Spencer was his pain in the ass psychic and he was the only one allowed to…

Lassiter cleared his throat and saved himself the trouble of checking for a pulse, the steady rise and fall of the chest alleviated at least that concern. He was about to ask Juliet to call it in but she was already pulling out her phone. "Don't-" He started and then tore his gaze from Spencer to meet hers again. "Don't give them a name, Henry and Guster might be-" He struggled for the right way to say this. "I think it'd be better if they didn't hear it over the ban."

She nodded and he went back to staring at all the things wrong with this picture.

The first thing that was almost ripped out was the IV, apparently they didn't come in 'comfortable', but at least they hadn't shoved him into one of those ridiculous gowns that were way too breezy for any garment that wasn't a kilt. With a kilt it was more than acceptable because kilts, they were awesome. You could totally work a kilt into a genius pick-up, but a hospital gown? Please. That only worked the sympathy angle and that was for people who were lazy. Er. Whatever.

He moved on from the IV because there was probably a reason they were throwing that much saline into his veins and wasn't that reassuring, and settled on checking out his new digs. He didn't want to start playing with buttons, okay he totally did, but that might mean a whole team of people coming in here with questions and he really wanted to put some distance between that and himself.

He shifted as minimally as possible and tried to get an eye around the corner of his curtain. He saw something in that telltale blue, male, bigger than was necessary and-and crap had totally seen him. Damnit. He fell back onto the pillow and tried to look as innocent and drug-induced as possible. It wasn't working.

The officer slid the curtain to the side to make room for himself, he could tell from the sound it was an extra ten inches than he would have needed. Which was almost something to snicker over but he was very busy pretending he wasn't conscious and even he had enough restraint for that. Maybe. At least right now. And seriously what kind of person bounced between terrified for their life and randomly interjecting sarcastic commentary? What was wrong with him?

"I may not be a detective Spencer but I know people don't squirm that much when they're knocked out." The officer began with slight humor and a strange familiarity that was switching him back to the flight vs. snark. "Spencer." He rested a tentative hand on the bed near his shoulder. It wasn't that he decided on it, but he flinched. And then there was really no point to the charade beyond the charade and whatever natural inclination he felt towards the theatrics of it was squashed.

"Jesus, man, you sure know how make an entrance." The officer continued when he opened his eyes and slid back against the bed.

"I'll have to take your word on that." It was off his lips before he could even give thought to the quip.

The other man chuckled. "Well, other than that new haircut and fancy post-op work it looks like not too much has changed." He shot a look over his shoulder. "I guess I should call in the doctors and Lassiter and O'Hara. Your dad and Guster aren't here yet, they only brought you in fifteen minutes ago." He straightened. "They grabbed me on the way out, you need a protection detail until they figure out what's what, I mean first that serial killer leaving all those crazy notes and then that snappy chick that broke into your building. Seriously man, what happened to you?"

The cop must have noticed that his breathing started to hitch and the heart rate monitor accelerated far past normal. Waking up and not knowing your name was one thing, waking up and not knowing your name and then passing out and then waking up again in a hospital and still not knowing your name only to be accosted by an officer of the law who totally knew who you were and was apparently your protection against at least a serial killer and some woman with a penchant for breaking and entering was something else entirely. Maybe. He chose flight, definitely flight.

But he had been right about the button pushing. The machines reacted rather noisily to his hasty removal of their attachments; of course there was also the giant man with the badge and gun in his way too.

The pain in his head started to swell again but he pushed it away, he didn't have time for it. He needn't to get the hell out of here. Again. There was a pattern developing now.

"Woah, man. Calm down." The burly officer implored, hands outstretched in what was meant to be a calming gesture. "Spencer relax, you're okay man. It's alright." He wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry at that, maybe both. Of course no one else would understand why it was so damn funny.

"Relax? Relax?" He asked incredulously. "I wake up in a hospital room with He-Man on my protection detail because someone broke into what is apparently my apartment building and there's a serial killer, just for kicks, I can't remember how I take my coffee, if I drink coffee, or my own damn name and you want me to relax? Relax? There was saline in my IV not Xanax."

"It's Spencer." He answered quietly, shock washing off his features and replaced with a kind of sad comprehension.

"What?"

"I don't know if I should be the one to tell you. I mean Guster or O'Hara, maybe, but…" He cleared his throat. "Shawn. Shawn Spencer." He pointed to the nameplate above his pocket. "I'm John Fargo. We're on the department's baseball team."

"I'm…" He couldn't…there wasn't… "Shawn?" Fargo nodded. "Am I a…" He nodded to the badge. John chuckled.

"No, definitely not. You're a-a consultant. Mostly. Sort of, it's kind of, well, it's complicated."

"Ah." Shawn replied. Shawn. Shawn Spencer. His gaze traveled to his hands, to the blinking machines and back. "Shawn." He continued in a whisper, testing the name out on his tongue. "Shawn Spencer."

There suddenly wasn't much to say. Fargo wasn't going to know his birthday or if he was allergic to peanuts, whether or not he'd gone to prom or if he put salt on his French-fries. In actuality he didn't want to ask those things even given the opportunity. He wanted to know them without having to rely on someone's second hand knowledge. Paper or plastic? Batman or Superman? Molly Ringwald or Ally Sheedy? Although, why hadn't they been interrupted by medical staff? The monitors were still angrily beeping away.

As if in answer suddenly two more law enforcement officials burst in the door and nearly ran towards them. Fargo stood quickly in their path to him before either could speak and gestured to them in turn, "Shawn these are Detectives Carlton Lassiter and Juliet O'Hara." Both flashed glances at him, instantly wary. Fargo kept his place in-between the detectives and Shawn.

Shawn smiled in what he hoped was a charming enough way and waved a hand. "Hello. Shawn Spencer. Amnesiac."

That was when the blonde sort of hiccup-gasped and the dude with her opened and closed his mouth a few times. It was a good awkward twenty-seven seconds before finally the taller man spoke, "Spencer if you're trying to get me to fall for one of your- your-" But then the words died on his lips. Shawn knew why, he may not know if preferred licorice to gummy bears but it was pretty obvious that the ugly marring mirrored on both sides of his skull was unsettling. To say the absolute least, because dude, seriously? Not. Cool.

"I know. I know." Shawn began with a smirk that felt hopelessly familiar, "You're wondering where you can get a fabulous style like this right?" His fingers lightly traced the right set. "I'd be happy to share, except you know, for the life of me I can't seem to remember where I had it done. That and when you're starting a trend you have to be more selective with who you let in on the ground floor. That's how Vanilla Ice was born."

Lassiter stared at him for a few seconds before rounding on Fargo. "So he doesn't remember anything that happened for the last seven weeks?"

"No last Tuesday is very clear." Shawn muttered sarcastically as Fargo replied, "Try the last thirty years."

"What?" The cute blonde whispered and Shawn squirmed under her scrutiny. "So you don't…you don't remember us?" All he could do was shake his head. Ruffling her partner's feathers felt right, natural, but he didn't have the same urge in regard to her. He didn't like the lilt of her voice as she asked and wished the impulse to lie simply so she'd stop looking so sad would subside. "Gus?" Another disaffirmation.

Lassiter went just short of putting his hand on her arm. "O'Hara." He offered quietly.

She half turned to him and her tone struck Shawn deeper than he'd care to admit. "Carlton…Gus and Mr. Spencer…" More names that weren't striking chords the way he knew they should. This amnesia thing was a bitch.

"We need to get the doctors back in here." Lassiter answered, all grim authority, and maybe Shawn should have felt a little bad for carrying on, he didn't, but at least he acknowledged that he should. "Spencer you don't remember anything? At all?"

He was tired of going over this, tired of the only three people he'd spoken to since waking up looking at him like he should know and being so hopelessly disappointed that he didn't. He wanted to remember, wanted any of this to be recognizable, but it wasn't. He stared back at the expectant faces and tried to force his brain to conjure up facts, memories, impressions, anything. But he was just cataloguing things, just observations that might make it sound like he knew them when he obviously didn't. Deductive reasoning. How many hats Shawn? And then pain like when he'd first woken and-

"Would this be an inappropriate time to mention that I think, or at least I'm mostly positive that, yeah, I'm definitely going to pass-" Which was when he collapsed so he really wasn't certain what came next.

He assumed the doctors had rushed back in because he was back to being attached to all sorts of mechanisms and they had yet to leave him without a person in scrubs nearby since he woke up, again, two hours ago.

Another thing he could add to the tally? He hated hospitals. Like itchy, there are three available exits and two possible strategies for leaving undetected kind of hate. And to make matters worse the cute detective and her stoic partner were standing on the other side of the glass talking to an older man in a Jimmy Buffet special and a well-dressed, uptight looking guy his age. All four kept shooting glances his way with degrees of disbelief and sadness.

Shawn. Shawn Spencer tried to focus on the doctor telling him the results of his latest contrast MRI. "Mr. Spencer from what I can tell whoever did this to you was highly trained."

"You admitting something without a lawyer doc?" He offered flippantly. Since the last round of waking he'd developed a rapport with the older man. It was a lot easier to be sarcastic and resist passing out when you were legitimately speaking for the first time.

The elder gentleman chuckled. "Hardly. But I think that the severity of this is being lost on you son."

He moved his eyes from the clear partition to the neurologist. "I woke up with a bad buzz cut, five inches of fishing line in my head and the worst hangover I can't remember. I think I got it Doctor. Being Geena Davis to your Sam Jackson is not my idea of a good time." He scrubbed his face with his hands and groaned.

The doctor pulled a rolling stool from the corner and sat next to Shawn's bed. "Look, I can't tell you this is going to be easy. Focal retrograde amnesia is almost completely unheard of and it's impossible to say when it will come back to you or how quickly or how much, if any. All I know right now is that your declarative memory, based on your Long Kiss Goodnight reference and the Pretty in Pink one from earlier is fine. It's your episodic memory that seems to have been intentionally damaged."

"You know people said that that mail order medical degree from Panama was a waste of money but I knew someday it would come in handy." It seemed the older man got his point.

"Declarative memory deals with facts, you look at your shoe and you know it's a shoe. You know how to tie it. You know what color it is. Episodic is the memory of learning how to tie your shoes, remembering when you went to the store to buy them."

"And someone did this on purpose?"

"Other than the obvious surgical measures taken the results from you blood test came back." The medical professional sighed as he looked at the chart in his hands and then back to Shawn. "There are certain pharmaceuticals that inhibit the retrieval of memories. Things that we remove from the regiments of Alzheimer's sufferers, that we prescribe antigens to aid such patients. And I can't say conclusively for what period of time but you received quite heavy doses of a cocktail of a few of those."

"So not an accident then."

"It would seem rather unlikely at this point."

"Awesome." He whispered sarcastically. "I'm thinking most people don't piss off crazy-psycho geniuses bent of giving them artificial amnesia."

"Not at my hospital." Doctor Waters replied as he stood.

"Nah," Shawn answered. "I'm starting to get the impression it's a talent of mine."

"So am I."

It was an elaborate game of phone tag. He told O'Hara who called Vick who called Henry who called Guster and then they were all sitting in the waiting room, well, not the Chief, but they were all sitting there and waiting for someone to come and say anything. Seven weeks and seven hours later. Seven weeks and now seven more hours of waiting, just waiting. For a group wherein not a single member might be classified as patient in most senses that was something. He wasn't sure what the hell it was, but it was something.

He kept his holster snapped close and tight to him. He wasn't sure who was more likely to go for it and threaten the staff, him, Henry or O'Hara. Although the way Guster had been silent since his arrival maybe they were all a little dangerous right now. He almost snorted at the idea, who would have thought that Burton Guster might actually intimidate someone someday. Sure it may be the candy-stripper on loan from the local middle school but even that was an accomplishment.

They all stood like a well-choreographed scene in a movie when the doctor finally approached. He was older, the way most men of certain age secretly liked their doctor to be, not so secretly, tall and balding, and perfectly cast for this part. He looked at each of them before he spoke when it really wasn't the time because they'd been waiting for seven weeks and seven hours.

"Which one of you is Mister Spencer?" He asked. Henry quickly took credit and the doctor offered a hand. "I'm Doctor Waters, and for the foreseeable future I'll be the one treating your son." He paused and looked them over again. "You all may want to sit for this next part." It wasn't a decision made beforehand but no one took him up on his offer. "Alright then." The gentleman nodded resignedly.

"Doc, you want to get to the punch line already? I'd like to see my son." Henry ground when the other man didn't immediately begin again.

The doctor met him squarely. "I'm afraid that isn't going to be an option for sometime."

There was a collective incredulous, "Excuse me." that came from more than one of them, but which and if not all Lassiter couldn't be sure.

"Shawn is awake, and stable but his condition is rather alarming and any undue stress at this point may cause complications we won't be able to predict."

"And since when is seeing his friends and family undue stress?" The only former officer of the law in the room asked, although the doctor was pushing that statistic to change.

"When he can't remember them." Waters supplied simply. He let their shock fade before starting again. "As of right now my diagnosis is complete focal retrograde amnesia. Shawn has absolutely no memory of any event prior to his waking his apartment earlier today."

Carlton's mind flashed to the neat black stitching. "Shawn Spencer. Amnesiac."

"Look I just want to make sure you understand the situation before you all head back there and overwhelm my patient. Again." Doctor Water implored to the growing group outside Shawn's room.

"What do you mean again?" Lassiter asked, affronted at the accusatory tone.

"Well I would think it would be rather obvious. When Shawn was confronted with the stress of more than one person he couldn't remember and the rather apparent disappointment that both you and partner exhibited he was overwhelmed both physically and emotionally, causing his seizure."

"And that doesn't have anything to do with the giant slices someone made into his brain."

"I'm merely warning you detective," The doctor began with a sigh, "That any undue stress may cause further complications. We are in unchartered waters and most patients suffering from any kind of memory loss are often grossly affected by pressure to remember what they've forgotten. Now given Mr. Spencer's extreme circumstances I can only assume that this will be even more violent."

"What are you saying doctor?" Gus asked.

"I'm saying that you should try not to expect very much, or rather, anything at all. The more you try and instigate your friend the more likely he will relapse. We are just beginning to dissect the images of his brain and we're not yet sure what they were doing in there. I can in no way predict how he might react to over stimulus. I'm saying that you must be very careful and patient."

"Have you told my son that yet?" Henry asked gruffly. "Because since Shawn showed up three weeks early he's done everything on his own time table. Patience isn't really a virtue of Shawn's."

"Mr. Spencer you'll have to remember that for the time being, or perhaps longer, he may not be exactly the man you remember. You all need to be realistic. There is no miracle cure for something like this, there's time and even then there is no way to be sure that any of his memories will resurface or if the damage is… more…permanent."

"But we can go see him now?" Gus asked tentatively.

"I would like to keep it to one, or at most, two at time. We'll be keeping him overnight for now, but after we make sure we're through the woods I'll release him to your care. I wouldn't recommend he be left without supervision for sometime."

The head detective snorted. "That's not a new thing doctor, he never should have been left without supervision."

The knock was as unsure as the guy on the other side of it. He didn't blame him. What did you say to someone you had probably known for years that wouldn't know the difference between you and the local barista? Hey, man, how's it going? How about those Thunderbirds? Not likely.

"Hey Shawn." He shuffled towards the bed but kept outside arm's reach.

"They didn't check but I'm pretty sure even I'm not cool enough for leprosy." The amnesiac smiled slightly. "But if anyone were, it would totally be me." He didn't laugh, didn't smile, not even a lip quirk. "Okay…" Shawn coughed, nice and awkward.

"Gus." Was all the guy finally said after a long moment. Shawn felt something in his brain wiggle. There was a tug on some synapses and for the first time outside of his sarcasm something felt seemed familiar.

"Gus." He tried, letting in roll off his tongue. "Gus?" He reset his mouth and wordlessly ran through it unnoticed by his new companion who taken to staring at the floor, hands shoved in the pockets of his suit pants. It felt right to say it, which was something.

A good fifteen seconds passed and the silence started to bother Shawn faster than he felt was probably standard, but he ignored it. "So, you guys draw straws or…?" Gus's head shot up at the remark, wonder racing across his features, gone as fast as it came. He had to be an awful poker player. "Take that as a yes, I must be as awesome as I seem." He sighed and fell back against the hospital bed.

The pain in his head refused to subside and they weren't giving him anything fun until they'd flushed out the remember me never. Now his first visitor was here by unlucky chance and not interested in playing twenty questions with whoever he used to be. All in all a banner day. If he were given a questionnaire he'd definitely bubble in 'exceeded expectations'.

"Shawn." The voice came out a little broken and sad. He opened his eyes and looked back over the Gus. "Please tell me this is an angle. That you're just pulling a scam on everyone and you're messing with me before you let me in on it." Gus finally met his gaze for the first time. "Please man."

The friend of the man he wasn't anymore must have found his answer in the parallel stare because he pulled in his lips, nodded and then closed the gap between himself and the bed, crushing Shawn in a bear hug. "We'll fix this man," he assured with a certainty Shawn envied. "We'll find the bastard that did this, like we always do, and we'll fix this."

"Like we always do…" Shawn offered in return.

Gus smiled, bright and sure, "Yeah, we're the best fake psychic detective partners in the damn world. And whoever did this shouldn't have messed with us. We're the best. We're badass. We've solved over fifty eight and a half cases together!" He extended his closed fist to Shawn. He regarded it for a moment with trepidation before finally giving a small return smile and bumping it with his own. Gus gave one sharp nod and grinned, "Hell yeah!"

Shawn smiled genuinely for the first time he remembered. "Hell yeah." He copied in a whisper. He tilted his head after a pause. "Wait, fifty seven and a half?"

A/N: So reviews would be oh so lovely, please, please and please. And next up on TMYL: REUNIONS ABOUND! SPARKLY BALLOONS! AND PEOPLE ARE DEAD! YAY!