Perry was awakened by the sound of 'I Will Survive' in glorious digital ringtone. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and blinked his eyes until they would focus on it. It was his contact in the Hollywood Police Department.

"Van Shrike," he answered the call.

"Good news, Perry. We got 'em." The man did not waste any words.

Perry glanced at his watch. "Damn, that was fast." It was a few minutes after three – less than six hours since he had sent the cop that email. "Not that I'm complaining."

"We've had a lot of drug-related crime in that area recently. The Chief was really coming down on Vice, so they jumped on your tip. Sent Health and Safety there and were conveniently on hand when the inspectors called to report illegal activity."

"Who have you got?"

"The owner of the club and apparent head of the operation. Fuck, but he is a strange one. And a couple of thugs who doubled as bouncers."

"That's good to hear." Perry sincerely hoped the men had resisted arrest. "You'll keep me posted?"

"As much as I can. Thanks for the tip."

"Anytime."

With no words of farewell between the two men, the call ended. Perry pocketed his phone again and looked down at the head in his lap. Harry was awake, but calm. He just lay there, looking up at Perry.

"Good news, Chief. The bad guys have been arrested. Our case is closed." The words gave Perry a stronger than usual sense of satisfaction. He only hoped that the prosecution would find enough charges to file against that fucking White Rabbit that the next thing he would get out of prison for would be his own burial.

"That's good," Harry murmured, though Perry was not sure the groggy man had understood properly.

"How are you feeling?"

"I don't know."

"Well, sit up and find out."

Harry sat up slowly. A shaft of early afternoon sunlight beamed in through an upper window and glowed on Harry's cheek. He held his hands out to the radiance and lightly clenched his fingers, as if trying to hold it. "I wanna go outside."

"Then go." Perry held his breath.

"I am going. Gimme a minute." Perry released the air in his lungs. Harry seemed to be fine with going out there alone. He slowly stood up and made his way to the sliding glass door. Perry was pleased to note that the man's steps were steadier than before.

"I'll be in the office doing the damned paperwork if you need me."

"Do you need me to help?"

I don't need another breakdown. "I don't think the clients speak moronic." Harry raised an eyebrow. "I don't need your help. Now go." Silently, Harry slid the door open and stepped outside. "Keep it open and close the screen, will you? The air's a bit stale in here."

Harry did as he was bid and then adjusted the back of a deck chair so that it leaned back more. Perry watched him sit down, light up a cigarette, and lean back, eyes apparently on the beach below. There should be a few bikinis out. That ought to cheer him up.

With that hint of a pleasant thought, Perry stood up and went his desk. He repositioned his chair and his computer monitor so that he would have as clear and unobstructed a view of Harry as possible. He could not, however, watch his assistant and type his paperwork at the same time. He would have to trust the California sun and the Pacific to take care of Harry for a while.

Sweet Jesus, this paperwork is going to be a nightmare. Perry was going to have to communicate as many of the details as possible and make sure that the clients felt that Perry (and Harry) had succeeded in spite of great difficulty (which they had). Yet, at the same time, he could not let on that Harry had been missing, captive of the targets, for four days. It just did not sound professional.

Refraining from a sigh – too many already today – Perry set to work. It proceeded painstakingly slowly. Not only did Perry struggle uncharacteristically with the details, but he found it rather hard to focus on the task when his eyes inexorably moved to Harry every two minutes. The other man shifted constantly in his chair and maintained shorter than usual intervals between cigarettes, but he seemed fine. Focus, van Shrike.

Perry further punctuated his attempt at paperwork by half-hourly forays to the terrace. "Drink," he would command, setting a glass of iced tea or water on the table. "Use it before you burn, idiot," he would gripe, dropping a bottle of sun block onto Harry's lap. "Eat," he would order his bemused housemate, placing a plate of cored and sliced apple on the table. Harry followed each of these instructions without complaint.

At around six, Perry finally finished his report. He would proofread it first thing the next morning and send it to the clients' representative. He moved to the kitchen and refilled the kettle before turning the burner on under it. While he waited, he decided to do something about the mess in the sink. He soaped up the sponge and went to work on three days' worth of dishes, vigorously scrubbing at hardened food stains. To each bit of grime, he tried to attach a memory from the last 72 hours. A coffee stain in a mug was an anxious sleepless night. A strand of pasta adhered to a plate represented Harry begging on his knees, tears in his eyes. And every last spot of grease or crusted food on a fork was the hateful feeling of helplessness that had beleaguered Perry ceaselessly from the moment he had discovered Harry's disappearance.

When the sink was at last clear of dirty dishes, the water had been boiling for some time. Perry switched it off and surveyed the spotless dishes drying on the rack. Clean and normal.

Perry retrieved two of the mugs and made tea – Assam this time. He flipped the small sandglass he kept near the stove and set about wiping down the sink while the tea steeped. When the last grain of sand had dropped, he took the two cups and went to join Harry, who was still sitting in the chair on the terrace.

Harry started a bit when Perry slid the screen door open but he otherwise seemed fine. "Finished?" he asked as Perry sat down in the other chair.

"Nearly. I might have to go back and change a word here or there. Living with you has degraded my vocabulary."

"Are you sure that's a bad thing? Who else uses the word 'nonplussed' in conversation?"

Perry chuckled at that. When he saw a small, but genuine Harry Lockhart smile lift the corners of the other man's mouth, the laugh became deeper. "Shut up and drink your tea," he said, his cheerful tone at odds with the rude phrasing.

"Yes, boss."

The two men leaned back, watched the sun sink slowly toward the horizon, and drank their tea. Perry shifted his gaze to the beach and saw a group of children laughing as they ran to and away from the surf, dodging waves. He recalled his earlier thought.

"I was thinking," he began. Harry's eyes shifted to him. "It's been a while since you've seen your brother and his family."

"Yeah, I haven't seen them since the funeral back in January." Harry's gaze was wistful as he turned it back toward the Pacific. "Chloe told me she's grown half a foot since the last time I saw her."

"Well, why don't you invite them here for Thanksgiving?"

"Perry, your dining room is a detective's office."

"The kitchen table is big enough for four and a half. Besides, the last time your niece insisted on talking to me she bombarded me with questions about California and the beach."

"Marty's never been keen on air travel…" Perry could tell that the other man was warming up to the idea. "But Susan and Chloe have been begging him to bring them here."

"Right, it's settled then. You can call them tomorrow."

The conversation ended there. They finished their tea and watched the sky and ocean shade from gold to pink, then to mauve. When the twilight began to deepen further, Harry began to fidget in his seat with greater frequency. Perry glanced at the smaller man, and saw the precursors of fear on his face.

"Time to make dinner, Chief." He kept his tone light, with a hint of authority.

"I'm not that hungry."

"Neither am I, but we need to eat. Come on," he prodded, rising. "We can split a sandwich."

"Fine, but it's gonna be a real sandwich, not something gay like a caprese or anything else with a French name."

"Caprese is Italian, idiot."

"Well whatever the fuck it is, it's not American."

"Fine. We'll have an 'American' sandwich, but no mustard."

Smiling, the two men went inside and to the kitchen. They made a good-sized ham, cheese, and tomato sandwich that Perry cut in half. The mood in the kitchen was light and companionable enough, but Perry was acutely aware of the silence. Harry did not look frightened or shaky, but he was never this quiet at dinner.

He should be babbling me to a mental stupor with plans for Chloe's first visit to California. Still, since Harry was eating with every indication of enjoyment and a hint of appetite, Perry let the silence continue.

They finished their meal and cleaned up with that same silence, broken only with the occasional instruction, question, or request.

"How're you feeling, Chief?" Was that the third time that Perry had asked that question today?

"Tired. Don't know why – I've slept or sat around for most of the da-ay." Harry punctuated the statement with a yawn.

"Well, I'm pretty beat myself. I was planning on calling it an early night. I've got to get up early tomorrow morning, anyway."

"But it's not even nine o'clock. My grandmother doesn't go to bed this fucking early."

"Well, your grandmother has probably averaged more than two hours of sleep the last four nights." Perry regretted the comment immediately when he saw Harry's faint smile twist into a guilty expression.

"I'm sorry, Perry."

"Hey, I decide when it's your fault and when it's not. This time it's not your fault, so stop fucking apologizing."

"Sorry."

"Harry!"

"Sor… So, bedtime?"

"Yes, now go brush your teeth. Go." Perry made a dramatic shooing gesture. He tidied up and turned off lights in the living room and office as he waited for Harry to finish in the bathroom. The vigorous motions caused the Seconal, which was still in his pocket, to rattle, an unpleasant reminder of the day and an ominous warning of what the night ahead might hold.

"All done, Perry."

"OK. And Harry," the other man paused on the stairs and turned his head back. "It's OK if you want to keep the light on."

"Thanks," was the soft reply as Harry resumed his climb.

Perry went to the bathroom and closed himself inside. He looked at himself in the mirror and shuddered. He was in desperate need of a shower, but he was worried about how Harry would handle the night.

Quick shower, he decided. It went against his core sense of style, but Perry forwent his conditioner and his post-shower skin care routine. He also brushed his teeth with less care and precision than usual, so he exited the bathroom, clad in his bathrobe with the Seconal an undesirable bulge in its pocket, a record fifteen minutes after entering. He swiftly made his way upstairs and to Harry's bedroom.

Harry was not there. Shit. Perry turned to dash back down to search for him, but he was halted by the sound of his name being called. He followed the weak voice to his own room. Harry was perched on the edge of Perry's bed. His eyes were wide and his hands clutched the bedding so hard that his knuckles were white.

"I can't, Perry," he said before Perry could even start asking him what was wrong. "I just can't be in there alone." Perry's fears for the night were beginning to be realized in Harry's tremulous tone. "And I don't think I can sleep. Not without something to help."

"I can fix you a glass of warm milk." Perry forced sarcasm into his voice, though wit and humor were no part of his current mix of emotions. Stress and exhaustion piled on his overwhelming feeling of helplessness to create something as close to despair as the detective had ever felt before.

"You know that's not what I fucking meant!"

Perry took out the bottle of Seconal, opened it and shook the last pill into his hand. He held it up clearly for Harry, dropping the bottle onto the floor. "See this? It's the last one, Harry. If you take it, there won't be any more."

"We can get more. Or we can get something else. That doctor you fucked can get it for us."

"No, Harry. Not for us, not for you. You take this one last pill and that's it. Think about it Chief. You're just a bit nervous now, but what if you need it more later? What will you do then?"

"I'll fucking get more myself!"

"And add possession to petty larceny in your record? I won't pull any strings for that, Harry."

"But if I don't have it when I sleep—"

"They were arrested Harry!" Perry put the pill in his pocket, strode to the bed and gripped Harry's shoulders. "No one is going to come after you."

Harry looked up at Perry, his wide-eyed, fearful expression once again disturbingly childlike. "They'll come in my dreams if the Siren doesn't sing them away."

"I'll fucking keep them away, then!" Perry knelt down and shifted his grip to a lighter hold on Harry's bruised arms. He looked straight into Harry's eyes. "I'll keep them away," he promised again, softly. "But I'm not fucking singing."

He released Harry and sat down beside him. Perry positioned himself so that he was leaned back against the pillows that were still piled up from the previous night's aborted slumber. He spared a glance for his bathrobe. Fuck it, that was beyond unimportant right now.

"Come here," he said to Harry, who edged closer. "Do you remember how you felt when you went to sleep last night?" Harry nodded. "And this morning?" Another nod. "How did you feel?"

"Safer."

"That wasn't the fucking Siren or the Seconal, got it?" Perry pulled his unresisting companion closer still. "That was me." Harry began to shake his head at this. "No, Chief. It was me." Perry reached over to the nightstand and turned off the lamp. Light still flowed in the open bedroom door from the hallway. He pulled Harry against him so that the smaller man's head was pillowed on Perry's chest and his knees were curled against Perry's thigh. "Go to sleep now."

"What if I have a nightmare?"

Perry lightly wrapped his arms around Harry and began stroking his back with one hand. "Then you'll have a nightmare. Everybody does, some time or another." He felt Harry relax against him and move a hand to rest on the other side of Perry's chest. His fingers began to tap a steady rhythm which Perry eventually recognized as his own heartbeat. Perry began to hum softly.

"I thought you weren't gonna sing," Harry commented sleepily.

"I'm humming. Idiot." The epithet was an afterthought.

"'Dream a Little Dream of Me?'"

"My mom used to sing it. Now shut up and go to sleep."

Perry continued the stroking and the humming. He felt Harry curl up more closely against him and he looked into the other man's face. Harry was asleep, his breathing soft and even and his face free of any strain. Perry tightened his arms around Harry, hugging the sleeping man to him.

"We're going to get through this, Chief," he whispered, surprising himself with the confidence he felt in the words.

We're going to get through this.

~THE END~

Thank you for reading.