Thanks For the Memories (Or Lack of Them)

They tell you that your name is Shawn Spencer. They tell you that you are thirty-three and that you live in Santa Barbara, California.

They don't tell you that you're meant to be psychic.

The accident was nobody's fault.

"What happened?" Henry arrives at the hospital, both furious and worried. He storms through the corridors like a small tornado, only stopping when he sees Gus sitting in a hunched position on one of the hospital waiting chairs. Behind him the pair of detectives are standing, looking grim. "Where's Shawn?"

"Don't worry, he's not dead," Detective Lassiter actually looks disappointed, and the lithe woman next to him elbows him pointedly.

"He should be okay," Juliet steps forwards from her partner's side, "We were arresting a guy for financial fraud and the perp resisted. There was an altercation, Shawn was hit on the head and knocked unconscious. He should be fine…"

"Should be fine?" Gus stands up, all bottled up indignation and fury, "Shawn's head was cracked right open. That guy dropped a car on him."

Henry mouths the words 'dropped a car' but doesn't get a chance to ask further when a door opens and a doctor steps out. She freezes at the sight of them all standing there, her gaze skimming over them before resting on Henry, "Mr Spencer?" she asks, looking relieved when he nods, "If you step this way, we should probably talk…"

Henry is quite happy to follow the doctor straight to his son, but he's aware of the rules and knows Gus and the detectives can't come with him, "You can say it here," he gestures to the other three, "I don't mind if they hear."

The doctor obviously does mind, but she appears to have noticed the police badge Lassiter is sporting on his belt, "Well, the good news is that Mr Spencer is going to be fine. He has a slight concussion and quite the goose egg on his head, but there is no sign of any worse injuries."

"But there was so much blood!" Gus speaks out, shocked, and also looking slightly sick at the thought of blood.

"Head wounds bleed a lot," the doctor consoles him.

"And the bad news?" Juliet asks.

The doctor takes a deep breath before speaking and Henry braces himself, "He received quite a large shock to his head. I'm afraid Mr Spencer is experiencing traumatic retrograde amnesia. Basically - he can't remember anything."

The man who enters your room is balding with small worried eyes that fix unnervingly on you. You force a grin, "Hi dad!"

(The nurse told you 'Your dad is going to come in and see how you're doing, is that okay?' so you're safe to assume the balding guy is your father.)

You see the relief, then see the wariness, "They said that was quite a knock on your head. How are you coping?" the man - your father, Mr Spencer, first name unknown - is approaching you with distance, trying not to crowd you, not to throw himself at the person he knows is his son, but who doesn't know it himself.

And the guy isn't familiar. If they were hoping the sight of him would jog something it doesn't.

"Shawn?"

You don't recognise the name even, and it takes you half a second to answer, "Me? Oh, y'know, I'm fine, except the amnesia thing…" you grimace, "But hey, have you seen some of the nurses here?" trying for an appreciative whistle you fail when something catches in your throat and you break down into coughing.

Your dad frowns, "You have a girlfriend."

"I do?" it's news to you. Everything since you've woken up has been news to him.

"Yeah, her name is Abigail. She's a teacher."

That's kind of respectable. You wonders what your job is, but don't ask. Instead you fall into an awkward silence. The man - your own dad - is a stranger to you.

"I'm going to go and tell Gus that you're okay," your dad smiles, before turning and walking out of the room.

They don't do feelings, apparently. You note it down and tuck it with all other information you've been collecting. It's almost too easy, and you can remember every conversation you've had since you woke up with no idea where you were.

It's just a shame you can't remember anything before that.

You look at the stranger staring through the steam on the mirror.

You don't look like a Shawn, you think. You begin to write the name in the steam on the bathroom mirror, but stop after the 'S' to hunt down your patient chart, just to see how it's spelt. By the time you've got back to the mirror the 'S' has faded, the water beginning to drip and your face - brown hair, brown eyes, you like the hair - stares back.

Shawn. You try it out. Maybe you can get used to it.

"Hey, Shawn? Are you coming?"

"One moment, Gus," you call out, turning away from the mirror and searching for where you dropped your jacket. Not that you really need to search because you can remember perfectly - hanging behind the door, third hook from the left - but it's buying you time. Outside the black man waits - Gus, same age, best friend, you're not sure about the job yet.

There's a bag all packed from your brief stint in hospital. The doctors have said there is nothing they can do, and beyond recommending some therapy, have told you to wait it out. Your memory should come back naturally. You've been through all belongings brought for you. Your dad ("your mother phoned, and she sends her best, but she's sorry she couldn't come, she has a meeting and she couldn't find a flight…") and friend (it's in your phone as 'gus' but you're still waiting on a surname) were kind enough to drop it off.

There's horribly little there. Your wallet (your name is Shawn Spencer, born 1977, you have a driving licence but can't find car keys which suggest you don't own a car, or they're not going to let you drive it in your condition. You have a motorbike licence (cool, you think, and that better not be something you've forgotten, you'd love to be able to ride a motorbike). There is cash, a single credit card that isn't yours (Burton Guster, oh, that's where the 'gus' comes from) and a piece of paper that looks like it's from a straw wrapper turned into a snake.

"Ugh," the guy - Gus, your brain reminds you - appears in the door, just as you shove the wallet out of sight and look up with a grin, "I accidentally took a wrong turn and ended up near the ER." He shudders, reflexively wiping down his hands on his pants. (Sweating, nervous, what in ER would make him freak? People? Blood… the guy had shown distaste with the bandage previously…)

"I'm ready!" You - Shawn - bounce up, feeling a slight rush of dizziness but nothing more, "And I've got the compliments of the chef from wherever the kitchens are," you hold up a small pot of pineapple, "And how do you get lost in a hospital? Everything's signposted."

You promptly prove this by leading the other man straight to the entrance, pausing only when you realise you don't know which car you are heading to. Gus is holding a set of keys (the make is toyota). You starts walking towards the nearest Toyota, analysing parking spots and heading to one you think the guy he's walking next to would be the most likely to park in.

You pause next to a blue Toyota Echo (2002, licence plate 5PCI371). Gus stares at you, "How did you know this was my car?"

And you smile in relief. You've been waiting for this, and you act suitable shocked, "Hey, wow? Really? I guess I must be starting to remember some stuff." Your act is flawless, you know, "You'll have the old me back in no time!"

Gus slides into the driver's seat, and you - Shawn, you remind yourself , your name is Shawn - take a moment to compose yourself , rearrange all your facts, before sliding into the shot gun seat.

You can totally do this.

You're not totally sure why you're faking it.

You remember nothing from before. But still you begin to let slip information you find out, watching as Gus relaxes on the drive home. Admittedly your information isn't much, but you're picking things up all the time and Gus just keeps talking, so your repertoire grows. You're planning on using some of it with your father later.

The blue Toyota Echo cruises down the roads at least ten miles an hour slower than the maximum speed limit. You don't comment, just notice. You've realised you're good at that - at noticing - little details, phrases, specks of dust on Gus' otherwise clean shoes.

You're not sure where you're going until Gus pulls up outside what looks like a dry-cleaners.

Glancing at Gus, you decide there is no way that a person like him would live in a dry-cleaners, so you assume this is your place, and with a grin clamber out of the car, "Thanks for the lift," you say.

"Wait - you recognise it?"

And it's that - the joy, the excitement and happiness as Gus trips his way out of the driver's door. The hope there is something you don't want to crush, can't crush, which is why for some reason you've kindled it instead.

You want to give these people something, even if you can't give them Shawn.

"I… think so…" you make a cautious start towards the dry cleaners, and then pause, eyes darting around. You can hear Gus beginning to step towards you, clearing his throat and before he can say anything, you reach beneath the welcome mat that depicts a cheery looking pineapple and untape the key. You hold it up with a grin, "It's all good!" you shout, and Gus nods, awkwardly.

You don't tell him that you only knew it was there because of the way the dust had scattered away from the mat, and the worn edge from being turned over. You don't tell him that you're bluffing your way through this whole ordeal to spare them the pain. Instead you unlock the door and walk inside.

Your house is not the neatest place, but there seems to be a certain order to the chaos. The walls are a soothing blue and there's a painting hanging on the wall of a guy with nice hair and it takes you a few seconds to recognise yourself.

You sink down on the couch and close your eyes. You're tired. Exhausted. Your head is throbbing.

With a sigh you open your eyes, stand up and get to work.

"Shawn! What have I told you about breaking into my apartment!?"

Slouched back on the sofa, you flick through the photo albums, reading the tags and gazing at the pictures with the well refined act of one who is trying to appear like they're not studying intensively. With one hand you pick up a yellow fruit from its place on the sofa next to you, "I hear they're the international welcoming fruit," you say, "What can I say? It was welcoming me in."

"That's a banana," Gus snatches away said banana, "And you're thinking of pineapples."

You look up, then shake your head, "No, I'm thinking of a banana."

"Pineapples are the international welcoming fruit, Shawn."

"I thought they were a convenient location to live in when 'Under da Sea'," you think you're confusing animations, but from what you've found out, it seems like something you'd do. Especially when Gus rolls his eyes and, after placing the banana back in its place on top of the fruit bowl, turns to a briefcase sitting by the door.

"I have to go to work. I am not leaving you here unsupervised while I go out. Not after last time."

You bounce to the balls of your feet, "Great! 'Cause I got a call from the police - they have a case for us."

Gus pauses. "You remember consulting for them?"

One hand waves, "Not all of the cases, but the basics?" You scoff, "Yeah, sure."

"That is not a good idea," your friend shakes his head, "You received a traumatic head injury only three days ago."

"And I spent two days in hospital getting better. They released me. Surely that means I'm free to go back to work?"

"Change of plan," Gus snatches up his car keys, "I'll call Juliet. Tell her you're not coming. You can stay here. Make yourself at home."

He forces a grin and stalks out, locking the door behind him. You glance at the window that you used to break in, then decide not to mention it. Your friend obviously feels safe with his current security system - you're not going to be the one to ruin his illusions.

You lied about the call, but it had obviously been a good one. You've exhausted your own apartment of information, and you think you're some sort of consulting detective. You know you have a high solve rate, and you know that you use a psychic source of information for the more difficult cases. You've put a serial killer behind bars though, and you're 'following in your father's footsteps' whatever that means. The newspapers were vague on that one.

You think you solve these cases with Gus (why exactly you solve cases with a civilian whose job is something involving drugs judging by the briefcase you looked into before he got there), except you can't find Gus' name in any of the newspaper clippings. There is however a growing list of pseudonyms that Gus must use. He's not paranoid (the security system isn't that high-tech), and from what you've seen the guy is too sensible to call himself even half of those non de plumes.

You make a mental note to introduce Gus to somebody using a fake name, and then settle down to begin to raid your friend's apartment for clues about your life.

It's about lunch when you get a call on your phone from someone named 'Nabby'. The voice is male, but with enthusiasm you greet the guy, "Nabby! What's up?"
"Shawn? I heard you lost your memory…"

"Wha- that? Oh, yeah, a few things are a bit blurry, but it's coming back…"

"Really? That's great!" there is a cough and the guy suddenly begins to sound a bit more serious, "Uh, listen, the Chief has a case if you're up to it, but if you need some more time off…"

You glance around the apartment. You've been through everything; childhood photos, more books on drugs than you'd ever like to see again and even helpful write ups on most of your cases. You were hoping to check out your dad's place but you haven't found an address yet.

"Sure!" you chirp, "I'll pop by the precinct."

"Great!" the other guy - Nabby - says, and hangs up.

You're left with a phone in your hand and the overriding question of how you're going to get to Santa Barbara Police Station without a car.

As you ponder that another thought occurs to you. For a moment you're curious about why you're even bothering? Why do you feel an entitlement to try and be somebody you don't remember?

And the truth is, you're not sure what your answer is.

The only thing you know that if you're not Shawn Spencer, you're nobody.

"So, I hear you're getting your memory back," the Chief smiles at him from over her desk. Her office was easy enough to find with glass windows and blinds that didn't even shut the full way around.

Your eyes flicker to the name tag on her desk and back up. "Sure thing, Karen," you say gleefully, watching her slight disapproving frown, "Sorry, Chief Karen. No? Chief Karen Vick. Chief Vick." Playing through the names you see the expression of long-suffering exasperation, and it occurs to you that you're like this all the time. Playful and nonsensical, bouncing around and playing everything like it's some big game.

It's exactly how you've been treating this whole thing, so you think it's only appropriate that you continue it.

You're almost disappointed that the blonde detective's first name isn't Abigail. She keeps looking at you as if there's something there, and you like her. You really do. But you have a girlfriend who called you last night. You spoke with Abigail for a while. It's more difficult, when not face to face with someone - you can't analyse her or her reactions over the phone, so you feigned being tired and stopped conversation.

"Hi Shawn," Detective O'Hara (informal use of your first name, you should probably respond in kind), "Are you feeling better?"

You have an overwhelming urge to flirt with her, "Great, thanks, Juliet." Her blinding smile when you say her name is worth it, even if the surly detective groans (his desk you passed on your way in read 'Carlton Lassiter' 'Head Detective' note the capitals…).

"It's good to have Mr Spencer back with us," the Chief says, and you note Detective Lassiter's grimace and Juliet's relief, "I want him in on the case I gave you this morning."

"Where's your partner in crime?" the surly Irish Detective - Lassiter - narrows his eyes at you.

"Who? Gus?" you throw the name out there, and in the split second where there is no alarm, you continue, "He had to work. Pharmaceuticals. Y'know, because he works. In Pharmaceuticals. Sales." You lost it somewhere, and so to save face adopt a confused look, "Is that right? I feel like that's right but some things are still… scrambled."

Juliet's smile is beautiful, "Yeah, that's amazing! The doctor was right - you are getting your memory back!"

"Joys," Detective Lassiter rolls his eyes, but you think you detect relief there.

"We're going to check the body," Juliet taps the file she's holding on her palm, "You going to come?"

"I want a word with Mr Spencer," the Chief leans forwards.

You stay while the pair of detectives file out of the room. You itch to head after them because you don't know where the morgue is, but you plant your feet firmly and smile at the Chief.

She's looking concerned, "Are you sure you're okay to work this?" She gestures at your head, "Everything it still working… your… abilities…"

You smile, trying to act like you know what she means, "I promise Chief, all facilities are in perfect working order, including my charm."

You must have done something right because she relaxes, "Good luck, Mr Spencer," she tell you, before turning back to her paperwork on her desk.

You find your way to the coroner's office. The precinct helpfully has signs everywhere, just in case a criminal or amnesiac detective needs help with directions.

"How's the caviar?" you ask as you push open the door, trying not to focus on the (ohmygod dead body dead body what the hell is your job here why are they hiring consulting detectives when there are two people trained to deal with it right here and why are you freaking out about your job and not the smell or appearance of the cold, bloated flesh?).

"Cadaver."

You blink, because Detective Lassiter is right.

The man frowns at you, as if expecting something, "What, no 'I've heard it both ways.'?"

You must mix words up a lot, you realise, so you brush it off, "I can't remember if I have," you say blithely, and the Detective winces.

"As I was saying," the coroner clears his throat, "There are clear ligature marks around the neck, as well as several broken bones. We're still waiting on the toxicology report to come back, but we're not expecting anything to come up. The way this guy was killed was obvious."

"He was hit by a car," you realise, matching up the bruises in a pattern, spotting the road rash and seeing the small tarmac stone studding the victim's palm. Then you look up to see the three staring at you.

"Yes," the coroner whose name you still don't know nods, "He was. But that…"

"But how does that explain the strangulation marks?" Lassiter interrupts.

"He was…" you start talking at the same time as the coroner.

"For God's sake, Spencer, let the man do his job," Lassiter tells you with a snappish tone, then turns to the coroner, "Woody, explain."

"It's simple," the guy - Woody, thank god for the name, shrugs, "The guy was hit by a car, but that didn't kill him. The ligature marks come afterwards, and the body was presumably then moved and dumped wherever you found it."

"He was hit by a car on purpose," you frown, "That means whoever killed this guy was following his victim."

Juliet opens the file in her arms, "His name is Aaron Grahams, twenty-seven. College student, so I guess we should ask around friends and teachers. I'll get Buzz to chase down phone records and bank statements, see what else this guy's been up to."

"Something dubious."

Lassiter looks up at you, "Is this another feeling?" he sneers, and there's an emphasis on the last word that you don't quite understand.

Wordlessly you hold up the phone you filched from the pocket. It's pale silver against the blue of the gloves you pulled on, "Threatening text message one, two and three," you scroll through them.

For a brief moment, Juliet and Lassiter look completely floored. Then with a huff of reluctant gratefulness, Lassiter reaches forwards and takes the phone from you, "That's actually mildly helpful." He looks suspicious, "What happened to the pop culture references?"

"I… can't remember having watched anything."

Lie. You can reference cartoons and obscure films, even if you don't remember watching them. You just had no idea you liked to refer to them regularly, apparently all the time if what you're gathering is correct.

"Oh," Detective Lassier opens his mouth as if to thank you, then decides better and walks off.

"Thanks, Shawn," Juliet does so instead.

"Uh… you're welcome." You think. Isn't this your job? Why is everybody looking at you with surprise?

Maybe you're not usually this helpful. You should probably be more cryptic next time.

One of the officers - his name tag reads 'Officer McNabb', his voice sounds like that on the phone so you feel confident enough greeting him with a 'Nabby!' - brings you a pineapple milkshake about two o'clock. You thank the guy and perch on a desk, listening to the hubbub of the precinct.

Absolutely nobody blinks twice at you sitting there, slurping your milkshake. Again you wonder at what sort of detective you are that you can go around police crimes in casual clothes and help to solve them.

Obviously a helpful detective, when Juliet comes up to him. Lassiter is already out the door and you missed whatever it was. Juliet opens her mouth to explain but taking in her appearance, the address scribbled on a piece of paper…

"There's been another body."

"How did you… oh, right," she nods slowly as if she's just worked it out. You're not sure what, exactly. "You want to come?" she offers.

"I don't have a ride," you admit, then cautiously add, "Gus is at work."

"Will he want to come and see it?"

You debate calling your friend, and then decide not to. It's bad enough with the detectives watching you closely, without someone who knows you like a brother to be analysing what you say, "Nah, but if I could get a lift…?"

"He is not riding with us."

"Come on, Carlton…"

"Where is his other half? No, I will not move this vehicle an inch…"

"Are we going to sit here arguing or are we going to go and see the dead body?" Juliet snaps, "Now either drive or get out so I can."

Somewhat cowed, Lassiter starts the car.

The body has been dumped near an old lumber mill. It's face down on the dirt, hands palm up suggesting the guy was already dead when he fell. You take in the broken nails, the scratches on his hands… the guy is quite large so the suspect has to be smaller, which would explain the marks on the trouser legs.

"He was also run over, same as the first guy," you point out as you finally spot the gravel scars.

Juliet looks grim, and Lassiter is frowning at you in something akin to suspicion, as if he expects you to start sniffing the body, poking at it like a ten year old. You're just considering that maybe you should take more of a vested interest, show some more enthusiasm beyond your first appraisal when the forensics indicate the body can be moved.

Lassiter rolls it over.

"If it's the same as the first there will be no fingerprints or DNA and…" Juliet winces, "Yep - strangled."

"Shawn, what is it? I'm at work, you know that, and this conference is important… wait - you wouldn't remember that, I told you last week…"

"What? Of course I remember your conference," you're bluffing, but Gus doesn't know that, "Gus, don't be that raincloud that rains on the heads of cartoon characters. I am totally fine. In fact, I even have a case. I'm with Juliet and Lassiter and it's so exciting. You don't know what you're missing!"

"I thought I told you to stay out of any cases! Shawn - you were meant to stay at my apartment!"

"I did. For four whole hours. But it was boring, and I figured you'd rather I wrecked destruction elsewhere."

"Shawn, don't do anything stupid. I'm coming back."

"And miss your conference?"

"My conference can wait. Where are you? Please tell me you're not breaking into anyone's house?"

"I break into people's houses?" You actually lose focus for a second, "Seriously?" You're not a very good detective, you think. "Would I do something like that?" you cover yourself, but even over the phone Gus has realised something's wrong.

"Shawn, don't do anything."

You've distracted yourself though, peering over to the computer screen. You found Lassiter's computer, worked out the password and have been browsing the systems for something, some link between the victims.

And you think you've found it.

Two links, plain as day.

"Shawn, what are you doing…? How about we meet down at the Psych Office and you can fill me in on this case..."

"I'll speak to you later; I think I have something…"

"No! No visions! Shawn!"

You hang up on him, and the phone doesn't ring back. It's probably some sort of testament to your character there, but you ignore that fact, calling to where Juliet and Lassiter are heading up from the coroner's office.

"Spencer, what are you doing in my chair?" Lassiter growls at you. Actually growls.

"I've got a link!" you wave Juliet over, "they met together last week at this coffee shop."

"How the hell did you find that out?"

"I saw the name on the financial statements you had gotten regarding the money withdrawals," you shrug, "And they both had the same receipt in their wallet."

Juliet freezes, and you don't have any idea what you've done wrong, so you bluster on. "I searched their names through the database, and while victim number 2…"

"Ridge Coonan," Juliet provides the name.

"He got picked up for drunk driving once two years ago, but I know there's another link."

"That's great," Lassiter does this thing with his face like he's trying to smile, but there is sarcasm literally injected into the smirk, making it more of a grimace as he shoves the chair containing you away from him. It skids across the office and you bring it to a halt, adopting a hurt expression. With exaggerated movements you drag yourself and the chair back to the desk.

"We think they were being blackmailed," Juliet tells you as you snatch the keyboard away before Lassiter can confiscate it from you, "We've got two bodies, each person having withdrawn money from their bank account before they died. The same amounts. They're the same age, but other than that, there is no link."

"Yes, there is," you disagree, head down, scrolling through the search engines, "And I'll prove it to you."

"That makes a nice change," Lassiter has just realised you're using his log-in and is trying to figure out how you cracked his password. "It would be so nice to have some solid, real proof for a change." Then he frowns, "Wait… why are you doing legwork, Spencer? I thought the spirits talked to you in some mysterious ways."
You stare at Detective Lassiter blankly. Or maybe it's just Lassiter. Gus had referred to him casually, so maybe you should too, but Lassiter feels too long in your mouth. So you avoid his name entirely.

You have no idea why he's talking about spirits. So you avoid that too, instead gesturing to the computer in front of you, "I found the link," you say.

There's a picture on the screen of two of the victims. Aaron Grahams, Ridge Coonan and a third; Daniel Armstrong. The three are young - about fifteen or sixteen. They're laughing, at some sort of club, and all look really drunk. The date is some ten years ago. It's their link.

Lassiter sniffs, "And that's it? No dramatic speeches or exotic dances this time?"

"Why, Detective, if you wanted a dance, all you needed to do was ask!"

As expected the man backs off, pushing back from the desk, and grabbing his jacket, "We need to find the third guy. If someone targeted the other two, then maybe they're going after their old friend."

You don't rush after, still frowning at the screen. You know you're missing something. You have to be.

"Call us if you have any visions," Juliet shouts back to him, but she's running off after Lassiter, leaving you frowning after her.

You may have had a knock on your head, but you're pretty sure you're not that out of it.

Daniel Armstrong is of medium height, brown hair and altogether uninteresting.

He talks. Once he realises what happened, he leans forwards and spills everything.

"A little while ago I got a letter in the post demanding me to pay money to an account. I was to meet with some people to collect the account number and was then supposed to do it a few days later. So I did."

"What did they threaten you with?"

"I have a few drunk driving charges I got out of… and something like that… it's a criminal record… it could haunt your life..." the guy shifts uneasily. He's lying about something. "Do you know who is after me?"

"Hopefully, if we find whoever was blackmailing you, we can find whoever wants to keep you quiet. Any incident in particular?"

"There was one about ten years ago."

"With these two?" Lassiter slides a picture of the dead guys across to Armstrong. He barely glances at them.

"I knew them from college," he shrugs, "But you know how it is. We stopped talking, got out of touch. I never saw them again until we all met up at that coffee shop."

The guy is let off with a police officer to guard him and warnings. You still feel uncomfortable, feeling like you're missing something when Lassiter and Juliet appear with grins on their faces.

"We've been through the footage from the coffee shop," Juliet tells him, and then gestures to where a blonde woman is being marched into the station and through to where interrogation is, "Meet Talia Harman. She was the woman who dropped off the account number at the coffee shop."

It's not her. You know that; can see it in the way she walks, in the glare on her face. But all you can do is frown, trying to work out what you're missing.

"Looks like we've got this case wrapped up," Lassiter grins smugly, "Sorry Spencer, but this one is ours."

If this was a competition then you'd be losing, but you're not all that worried in retrospect. You dig out the keys to your motorbike and decide to do some of your own investigating.

Gus tells you that you do it all the time, so it must be somewhat useful.

An hour later and the knowledge that breaking and entering isn't as fun as films and TV make it out to be, you have your answer. Your missing link.

"She didn't kill them," you blurt out, at the same time as Juliet and Lassiter open their mouths to say something, "Oh, sorry," you backtrack, "Go ahead."

Juliet frowns, but speaks, "She admitted to blackmailing them," she says, "But she has a solid alibi for the estimated time of death for both victims."

"That's because she didn't do it!"

"Did you catch this from your sixth sense?" Lassiter spits, looking well and truly fed up with the case.

"No, I went to one of the victim's apartment, looked through their search history, at some articles… there was a hit and run accident ten years ago where…"

"We know," Juliet says, "Molly Harmon was killed in a car accident and…"

"The car was never caught, nor the perpetrators. But somehow Harman must have found out who it was, blackmailed Grahams, Coonan and Armstrong to pay up money. So why kill them after that? She had her money, her revenge, her justice? No, someone else wanted to keep them quiet about the accident. Someone else had to finish them off so they followed them. Hit both victims with their car before tying them up and taking them somewhere quiet. Both victims had rope burns and drag marks. The guy killing them was smaller, lighter. He strangled them, but their actual method of death was from an overdose of oxycodon and ketamine. They each had a needle mark…" You pull up your sleeve, "here," you point to the crook of the elbow.

"How did you…?" Juliet had her mouth open.

"The toxicology reports are sitting on your desk," You point past her, "To be honest I didn't put the last bit together until now, but someone… someone's trying to frame Harman, by making it seem like she's getting revenge for her daughter's death ten years ago."

"Why strangle them, and inject them with drugs?" Lassiter sneers, stalking over in disbelief to the desk, and then stiffening when he sees the report.

"Molly Harman was found with high quantities of drugs in her system. She was on her way back from a local club, late at night when she got hit by a car." You're counting on your fingers. One, two and… "And she might have lived, but a necklace she was wearing got twisted, cutting off her air supply. Combined with the drugs in her system…"

"You… worked that out." Lassiter is staring at you in almost disappointment, then, "How the hell do you make those links? How did you..."

You're not sure why this is such a shock to them. "I notice stuff," you say, almost defensively, "and I remember everything. Well, some things before I bumped my head are a little bit…" you wave a hand vaguely, "But!" you add brightly, "Numbers, conversations, tiny details, someone give me a twenty-digit number to remember…"

"Eidetic memory!" Lassiter punches the air, "I knew it was something." He then frowns, "Dammit, how did I not get that, even your mother..." he stops, and you don't get why he's disappointed. Detective Lassiter is looking at you with almost sadness in his eyes, but its hidden behind a mask of triumph.

"That's amazing," Juliet sounds awed, but looks hurt, "You should have been a detective."

"I thought I was," you say. You're confused, "I mean, I know I consult, but I didn't…" that's when you work it out. And you've been so slow, so stupid, dammit, you're eyes close to picture it all, to put the pieces together. The detective agency ('the Psych Office' Gus had said… Psychic), the reference to Santa Barbara's head psychic, (have the spirits been communicating to you? Chief's concern about his abilities still working)…

"I'm a psychic detective," you say, eyes opening and hand dropping from where you've had your fingers pressed to your temple to help you remember, but now you wonder if it was instinctual, part of the act.

And Lassiter and Juliet look grim. Because you've been running a con. A long term fraud against the Santa Barbara Police Department. And it's successful.

And you've ruined it. Blown your cover.

Damn.

"I told you he wasn't psychic," Lassiter says smugly, but Juliet is still staring at you looking heartbroken.

"You lied."

"I-"

"You lied. This whole time… you lied…"

"I didn't-"

"You think this is a game? Have you enjoyed playing us? And now you - what? Got bored?"

"Juliet…"

"What, no Jules?"

That's your undoing. For a moment you're totally blank, totally lost. You have a nickname for your not-girlfriend?

And they see it. Both of them. They're both detectives, they both spot his blank expression.

Juliet suddenly looks horrified. It's worse than her expression at realising he'd been lying about this psychic thing, "You don't remember."

"Jules…"

"You haven't call me that since your accident," she says, then turns violently to her partner, "Has he called you…" she stops just short of saying it, and you curse that.

Lassiter looks puzzled, "What do you call me?" he asks.

You swallow but your throat is dry and it feels more like a gulp. There's no way out of this, and you try to work out if it's come up in conversation…

You've taken too long, and Juliet - Jules, that's what got you into this mess - gasps, "You actually don't remember anything," she says, letting out a disbelieving laugh, "And we thought… we thought you were getting better but you…" her expression is one of mixed fondness, sadness, exasperation and annoyance, "You're still running a con. Still lying."

"Except he forgot the biggest lie," and yep - Lassiter is definitely smug.

You cross your arms, aware that it's a defensive position, "So, it might be pathological," you admit, then shrug, "hey, I don't remember, but I know it's easy and I'm good at it." Juliet actually looks like she agrees.

"I don't know whether it's even worth rubbing this in if you don't even remember me," Lassiter is suddenly put out by that realisation.

"Okay, seriously, what do I call you? Carlton? Carly?"

"Don't-"

"Lassie," Juliet tells you, and it's nice, you realise, being told something, even if it does feel weird that they're telling you something you should know already, "But you've already made all the dog jokes, so using them again is just underhand."

You nod, still feeling exposed, still feeling rubbed raw by the detectives scrutiny of you, "So… I - uh, I'm psychic? That's how I solve cases? The spirits tell me the answer?"

"You make wild links that usually turn out to be right," Lassiter grumbles, "You usually accuse the wrong person several times before landing on the right one and pulling the most inconsequential bit of evidence up as proof."

"You don't usual explain it to us," Juliet says, "That's why it was so fascinating to actually hear everything that goes on in your brain. To see it from a different perspective."

"That's it!" you stare at her in sudden realisation.

"What is?"

"Perspective. That picture…" there is a mad scramble to produce the picture of the three men. The one from the club ten years ago. Two of them victims, and the third under guard as they speak, "someone had to have taken the picture, right? Which means there was another friend. Another guy."

"But Armstrong didn't tell us about that," Juliet frowns, "Surely he would have known about his own friend?"

"He would, but maybe he didn't want us to know."

There is a pause, then a sudden rush as the three of them race for the door.

"Wait, we don't know the address, or this guy's name…"

"His name's Patrick Frasier," you have your eyes closed so you don't see the blank look the pair of detectives shoot at you, "his address…" you try to think, it was the guy's website you found the photo on…

Yes, there was an address, and you rattle it off to the pair. The car screeches out of the parking lot.

In your pocket your phone rings and you answer it reflexively, then pause to wonder if it's reflexive if you don't remember it. And god - even your phone has a green Psych cover on it - you thought it was a joke or work related thing…

"Where the hell are you, Shawn? I'm waiting at the Psych Office…"

Ah, yes, Gus.

"I never actually promised I was coming down…"

"What? But we always do our legwork at our office…"

"I do?"

"Yes, Shawn! How much do you really remember?"

"Not as much as I should," you answer evasively, because if the pair of you have supposedly known each other since you were kids, the guy must know about the faux psychic thing too, "So, think carefully, Gus, is there anything you think you should tell me."

"You have a dislike for pointy objects?"

"Not that. Although that is useful, thank you for telling me before someone pulled a knife on me. No, I was thinking more along the lines of 'oh, Shawn, you're pretending to everyone that you're psychic."

There is a pause on the other end of the phone. "Oh," is the eventual reply, as if that explains everything, "You said you were remembering."

"I lied," you shrug, "Apparently I do that a lot."

You should probably get yourself diagnosed, but at this rate you can do it yourself. Lying is almost too easy (pathological liar) and there is a need to be right and to be the best and have everyone looking at you (narcissistic personality disorder) and that's not even starting on your attempts to keep your friends and family close by pretending to know them… you're going to stop before you gets trapped too deeply in your own psyche. You guess this proves that memories do not make up a personality.

"This is serious, Shawn! We committed a felony! We could get jail time for this! Did anybody find out?"

"Jules and Lassie," you say, and damn, that feels nice saying it like that, "Lassie and Jules," you repeat it, then lean forwards, "I really like those nicknames by the way, thank you for telling them to me."

Lassiter's side-glare at Juliet is totally worth it, "I had a chance to escape," he says, "O'Hara, next time I advise you take the opportunity. Now Spencer's mocking will haunt us for life."

It's something in the way he says it that triggers your memory.

"Armstrong," you say, without even realising it.

"What?" Juliet looks sideways at you.

"What?" Gus says over the phone.

"Armstrong didn't want the charge of drink driving to ruin his life. And it wasn't just the driving if it turned into a homicide…" you're piecing it together now, "At the time they agreed to laugh it off, went their separate ways but then Talia Harman tracked them down, sent out the blackmail… and they wanted to come clean. Clear their conscience…" the one victim had been wearing a cross, the other had pamphlets about confession around his house… "But Armstrong didn't want to. There's a reason he didn't tell us about the last guy. The reason he kept it to himself. He didn't want his record tarnished so he went after the others to stop them telling everyone. He set it up to frame Harman, because he knew they'd trace her through the blackmail. He'd come out of it looking like the victim instead of the perpetrator."

Lassiter barks out orders, "Call McNab. He was guarding Armstrong."

"I already am," Juliet looks up, "He's not picking up."

"Thank god," Gus says through the phone, "Shawn, Juliet, Lassiter, thank for not dragging me into this."

"You're welcome buddy," you say, head resting on Juliet's seat in front of you, "Hey, that was hard work. Next time do you want to do the breakdown?"

They find the house of the last of the four friends. The one they almost missed.

Armstrong is already there when they break down the door, and you follow the other two in, expecting it to be over quickly. The guy panics when they arrive. He's already thrown off his schedule by attacking the last friend - Frasier - in his own home. He's still killing them in threes, and the lucky number is unconscious from too many drugs in his system.

"Hands up!" Juliet and Lassiter pull their guns on him and despite being a tiny guy, Armstrong manoeuvres the unconscious Frasier into a human shield.

"I had to stop them telling," he says, desperately, "It would have ruined our lives!"

He seems unaware that he's just ruined his own life.

"Guns down or I kill him!"

Armstrong has the hostage, and there is nothing Lassiter or Juliet can do but lower their guns. You hover there, feeling useless. You're not a detective. You have no badge, no gun, no training.

You're a goddamn psychic who isn't even real.

Well screw that, you decide, and drop to the floor with a thud that has everyone startling, but you can't see because you've closed your eyes and started twitching your limbs in what you hope looks like an effective seizure. "Shawn?" you hear Juliet's shocked cry.

"What is wrong with him?" Armstrong cries, "Is he epileptic?"

You think you've missed your point, so you cry out, "I'm seeing something!"

You think you hear Lassiter sigh, but Juliet picks up the line, "He's psychic," she explains, "he's reading your aura."

What follows next is you proceed to explain everything you did in the car to the perpetrator himself. It's a distraction. It's buying them time. At some point you get tired of lying on the floor and stand up again, putting a finger to your temple. You continue explaining and start up a game with Juliet in which you have to work out the exact finger you need to hold to your head (because apparently you did it wrong the first time). In the end it doesn't matter. Armstrong has had enough.

"I know what I did!" he screams, and then throws his victim forwards towards Lassiter. The detective collapses under the weight of the unconscious guy and Armstrong darts for the door.

You realise too late that you're in the way, and by that time he's punched you backwards and - wow - for a small guy he has a mean swing. You crash into a bookshelf, head spinning. Behind you Armstrong has grabbed Lassiter's gun and is holding it on Juliet.

Your head is ringing and with a groan you stare at your hand where it comes away red from the splinters the bookshelf has broken into. Several dozen inane comments occur to you, and you're about to say them when you realise now isn't the time.

There is a killer going after Lassie and Jules and...

You barely realise you're back, that the knowledge you've been grasping at is suddenly there. You're too focussed on the guy with the gun, at Lassiter and Juliet being held at gunpoint and Juliet's gun lies on the floor just a foot in front of you.

That's the point you realise you remember.

You remember your dad's name and your mom's job. You remember the first time you met Juliet and the last thing you said to Gus before the world crashed down around you and you…

You remember that you can shoot.

And Armstrong isn't looking at you.

Juliet flinches at the shot, but Lassiter takes it all in his stride, tackling Armstrong to the floor. The villain has dropped the gun, clutching at his hand and howling, a small bloody hole through the middle of his palm. He's down in seconds, hands behind his back even while he's still yelling bloody murder.

"Are you okay?" Juliet regains her composure, looking towards where you're holding the gun. She's not too worried about the gun, instead her gaze is fixed on your head.

You lower the weapon, and Lassiter snatches it off you almost nervously. Gingerly you reach for your head, and find the back of your cranium sticky with blood. "I think I opened my stitches," you tell her with a weak grin.

"Do you know who I am? Spencer?" Lassiter glares down at you. That's his permanent expression, you realise, with varying modes between the glares. You can remember a lot of things suddenly but you can't remember if you've ever seen him smile.

"Shawn?"

You've taken too long to answer again. "What was the question?" you ask, blithely, playing the short-term memory card to watch them both straighten with worry. You're about to stand but Lassiter shakes his head.

"Don't move. What's your name?"

"Don't worry, Lassie, I'm fine!" you stress, "I know perfectly well my name is Jason Bourne."

The Detective is stalking away seconds later. Juliet remains worried for another four seconds before catching that it's a joke. With a sigh she rolls her shoulders back and offers you a hand up. You take it. Splinters sting your palm and your head is ringing, but you feel with it. You feel like you.

You grin at Juliet, trying to convey it all in the one expression. Because you're back, you're Shawn again and this time there are no more secrets. No more lies.

"Come on," Juliet says, "We should get that head of your checked out before you forget anything more. Then we need to go see the chief."

And that's about when you realise she hasn't got it yet. She doesn't know you remember.

"That was stupid," Lassiter scolds you later at the station, "You shouldn't have even had the gun."

"Lassie, I once shot out a guy's radiator while clinging to the bonnet of your car, I think I can shoot a guy in the palm."

"I'm just glad it wasn't my gun you got your dirty paw on…" Lassiter doesn't stop, but you hope at least that Juliet has realised. She's shooting you a look, and you're about to reply when there is a loud, "Shawn!"

Gus appears, "What happened?" he asks, frantically looking you up and down, "Did you get hurt?"

"I'm fine," you wave him off, "the bad guy is caught, case closed, I totally just earned us our pay check…"

"How did they find out?" Gus gestures to Juliet and Lassiter, "About the psychic thing? Are they going to arrest us?"

"Us?" you laugh, "Why would they arrest me? I solve their cases. You on the other hand…" you had thought Gus was the psychic for a moment back when your memory was still eluding you. You'd tossed that theory aside once you realised he sold pharmaceuticals.

"Nobody is getting arrested," Juliet reassures you both, and you stare at her in startled surprise.

"What do you mean?" Lassie looks put out.

Jules glares at him, "We're not arresting them," she repeats, "No - Carlton, I know you'll deny it, but I'm pretty sure not even you want to arrest Shawn…"

"Arrest Spencer?" the Chief arrives at the wrong moment, "So I hear you solved your case? Congratulations. What's all this about arresting Spencer?"

There is a pause and you realised belatedly that you're terrified. You had never planned for the con to go on this long and that makes you feel only slightly better about yourself. Mostly you're scared because without the psychic thing, you have nothing. You're a wanna-be detective who couldn't even be bothered to put in the hard work to get to the position, instead you lie and trick your way into it.

No wonder Lassiter hates you sometimes.

Yet when you look at him, he has his lips pressed together sullenly, and isn't saying anything.

"Nobody is arresting Shawn," Juliet reassures the Chief, "It was a threat. Carlton was threatening Shawn. You see, Shawn hasn't actually got his memories back. He lied to us, using his…" here she pauses for half a second, "psychic visions," she doesn't stumble over the words, "to help guide him through everything."

"Well in that case…" Vick doesn't look like she knows what to think about that, and turns to stare at you, "You should take some time off," she decides, "No more cases."

And yep - she manages to think of something that is almost a punishment.

"But Chief!" you whine, "I'm fine! The spirits have been very informative about my life, I find I'm learning more about myself all the time…"

"Spencer," she interrupts all arguments, "Just take a damn week off."

You decide it's probably better not to argue. It's only once she's turned and walked away that it occurs to you that your best argument was to admit you actually had your memories back.

"Good work, Spencer," Lassiter looks uncomfortable just saying that, but he seems to feel the need to encourage this more sensible you. You don't like it, you just know you're going to get bored of it, but maybe you can play him for a bit longer. You watch him stalk off and decide to be less annoying for a week. Maybe two, but any longer and his personality is just going to be asking for you to make his life more interesting and entertaining.

"You make sure you get that head looked at," Jules tells you, "I wouldn't want you to forget any other important details." Was that a wink? You think it's a wink. Juliet O'Hara just winked at you.

She knows you're better: that you remember. She has to know, she's just amazing like that. Well, that and the wink and the blatant hint.

You should ask her out on a date sometime. Preferably when you're not dating Abigail. That would be awkward.

"So?" Gus blinks at you, "They didn't arrest us."

You pat his shoulder, "I think that went well." You tell him, "I think that went well."

"You call that 'well'?"

"What can I say; it's been a good day. I solved a case, remembered everything I forgot, saved the day, stumped Lassie, gained Jules' approval, earned us a pay check…" you nod, "Yep, I'd call that a fantastic day. This calls for smoothies!" You're about to march off, but stop at Gus' look.

"I don't believe you."

"What you mean you don't believe me?"

"I don't believe you. You said that last time. 'oh gus, I remember everything…'"

"I don't sound like that."

"Then you went off and blew your psychic secret to everyone…"

"But I do actually remember this time."

"No you haven't."

"What? No, really. Bumped my head again, boom, memories back. Just in time for me to shoot the guy in the hand."

Gus just glares at you, "I can't believe I even fell for that the first time," he snaps, turning away, "Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice…" he's walking away and you're left staring after him.

"Hey! Wait up… Gus! Gus, I was being serious! I was telling the truth! Gus!"