Summary: Detective Carlton Lassiter has lost 36 hours of his life. Waking up disoriented on a beach is where it starts. Before long, he thinks he's being watched. Then he's accused of a serious crime. Desperate, he goes Shawn for help recovering his memory, needing to discover if he is guilty or innocent. But the people responsible want to make sure that Lassiter never gets his memory back, putting everyone's lives in danger.

Author's Note: Hi, my name is silverluna and this is my first Psych fanfiction. Now before you run away screaming and boycotting, I want to say that I have written other types of fanfiction before. (I am also continuing a Bones fanfiction I started about a year ago.) I recently became a fan of the show Psych and have become addicted to reading various fanfictions about the show. The other night I had a dream about Lassiter, in his bed, being shaken awake by a figure clad only black who was there to do him harm. When I woke up, I started writing, mapping out a great outline for a few story that will be Lassiter-centric, with Shawn being the second most important, and the other characters also being involved. A note on geography: Leadbetter Beach is a real place in Santa Barbra, CA. However, I do not know how far it would actually be to the actual setting of Psych, so I guessed. Also, Leadbetter Beach is advertised as a heavily populated area, but for purposes of this prologue/ story, Lassiter finds himself in a space devoid of other people and must look to find some.

This is NOT a slash fic.

I would consider this story a Hurt/Comfort/ Whumpage (to some degrees) Mystery/ Suspense/ Friendship story. Rating is for language and general whump.

Main Characters: Carlton Lassiter, Shawn Spencer

Other Characters: Karen Vick, Juliet O'Hara, Burton "Gus" Guster, Henry, other SBPD officers and original characters

Pairings: Shawn/ Juliet (minor)

Disclaimer: I am not the creator of or writer for the USA TV show Psych. This story is purely for fun and though I wish I could claim it is making me a ton of cash, I cannot. (Because it's not!) I also do not own the TV show Cops. The titles of the chapters are lines from various songs, wish I also do not own (but love listening to).

Lastly, I would like to express my gratitude to the great authors of other Psych fanfiction stories who have helped to inspire me to do great Psych things. Hope you know who you are! Please read & review (every little bit helps!) and enjoy. Thank you in advance to reviewers!

Ask For Another Day

by silverluna

Prologue: A Creature There In Darkness Lies

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Brightness. So bright. Heat on the skin. The sun was in the middle of the sky, meaning it must be around noon. The sky so bright, a bright blue light. Like denim, or the ocean on a cool September morning. Stark. He squinted upwards. He became aware slowly, as if just waking up, and then walking through a fog. The edges of objects were less and less blurred.

It was day, afternoon, noontime, by way of the sun. Okay, okay. Day. Wait. Wait. Was it the same day? The same day as . . .

Carlton Lassiter squeezed his eyes shut tight, searching for any thread of memory, no matter how insignificant. There was, there was . . . nothing. Oh, god.

He looked around for landmarks, a street sign, anything that seemed familiar. Palm trees, webby storefronts, a long gray sidewalk dusted with sand. He continued along the sidewalk, which was leading to a beach, his mouth bone dry as he realized he had no idea how long he had been walking. Okay, okay. He knew his name, that was good. He knew he was Head Detective at the Santa Barbara Police Department. He knew his badge number. He knew how many guns he stashed in his apartment. Eight. In his head he could see the face of Juliet O'Hara, his junior partner in the force, and Chief Karen Vick's, Buzz McNab, and other officers and detectives. But of the last few hours, he couldn't see any of it. Maybe the explanation was simple: he'd had too much to drink, and blacked out. But if that was the case, why hadn't he passed out on the couch in his apartment, or his own bed? Or worst case scenario, at a table in a bar? Surely, the bartender would have shook his shoulder, woken him, gotten him a cab. It didn't make any sense that he would be walking down towards a beach in the middle of the day. Shouldn't he be at work? Was anyone . . . missing him? Was it a day off?

His stomach lurched. Oh, no. A stab of warmth, then cold. Fluid shot into his mouth and he bent and threw up in the sand. It was clear and tasteless; Lassiter's hand went to his forehead. God, god. What was happening to him? He squeezed the bridge of his nose and tried to think. Maybe I should sit, access the situation, he thought. He couldn't see a bench anywhere; turning his head in so many directions made his head ache. His ears began to hum and then he felt vibrations behind his eyes. Lassiter emitted a low moan as he sank to his knees, waiting for the sudden pain to pass. With his eyes closed, he tried to think. Still, nothing.

The pain dissipated. Lassiter opened his eyes, and for the first time, looked himself over. His arms were bare, which was unusual, because he was always wearing a suit, jacket and tie; he even considered that attire "casual". He wore a red t-shirt, one that he didn't recall owning. And black jeans that seemed new, though now the knees were crusted with sand. I don't own black jeans, do I? he thought with a frown. Huh, that was odd. Why would he have left his apartment without shoes? In his mouth a sour taste. There was no way he would have gone out drinking without socks or shoes, let alone dressed like this.

Lassiter tried to remember the very last thing he did before he became aware that he was walking somewhere unfamiliar. He scrunched up his face hard but couldn't shake loose any coherent thoughts. "Dammit!" he said aloud, frowning at how raspy and far away his own voice sounded. He coughed a few times with the same results.

He sat back in the sand. After a few minutes he started patting down his pockets, looking for his wallet, a cell phone. His pockets were empty. No ID, no badge, no money, not even a quarter to put in a pay phone. And no cell phone. Lassiter knew that should he find a pay phone he could just dial 911 and it wouldn't require change. He didn't want to resort to that unless it was absolutely necessary. Maybe there were civilians around who could fill in the blanks in his head. Or a house or a business where he could use a phone. Lassiter got to his feet and started walking again, though for all he knew he could be on a desert rather than a beach. He had been wandering on the sand for a while; he turned and realized the sidewalk was half of a mile back. That's so odd, odd, he thought. He got another funny feeling in his stomach, then his head, and a wave of nausea struck. A shuddering gray, then brown-black wafted up over his face.

Lassiter open his eyes. He had sprawled onto the sand, taking in a few mouthfuls. He eased himself up to a sitting position, wiping off his face and spitting out the sand. Hell, this isn't good, he thought. He patted down his arms and shirt, pushing off loose granules. He noticed that his shirt in places was stiff, like paper mache, and then, there, sticky. And there, sticky. He examined his upturned palm in the sun; his breath stuck in his throat. Smears of blood. Instinctively, he lifted up his t-shirt, looking for signs of wounds. He felt his back, his shoulders, and there, on his stomach, just above his belly button, was a small cut, still oozing.

But on his shirt was so much blood. He hadn't noticed it before because of the shirt's color. Whose blood is this? He touched the cut with his other unbloodied hand; it stung a little but it was hard to imagine it gushing. But what if it had? What if the reason he felt faint and lightheaded was blood loss? He touched the wound again; it was superficial. No, this wasn't all his.

Dammit. He needed to get to a phone. He squinted into the sun again, which seemed to be turned on full blast into his face. He took some deep breaths and staggered towards the sun. No, wait, that isn't the right way. Dizzy, he sank back to his knees again.

Maybe I should call for help, he considered. It seemed doubtful that he would be heard; he hadn't seen nor heard any people nearby, or even any other signs of life, like vehicles or birds. Plus, he wasn't sure he trusted his voice.

"Help," he tried. It was a hollow sound. "Help," a little louder. The rushing was back in his head. He yelled the word help over the noise in his head, before he curled onto his side. A long silence answered.

Crap. This is bad. He needed to get up and find help for himself. Lassiter just wanted to sleep. What if he were concussed? He ran his hands through his hair, checking the back of his head for lumps. Nothing. God. Dammit! He bunched his hands into fists, a rage stretching across the inside of his chest. Why was nothing making sense? He forced himself to his feet, pushing his way back towards the sidewalk, solid ground under his feet. He felt dirty and was soaked with sweat by the time he came in sight of the storefronts he had first seen before wandering onto the beach. The storefronts were empty; he looked in a few windows and the insides seemed unused for a long time. He kept walking, turning a corner he hoped would lead him to a phone, or people. Maybe he could find a police officer . . . he stopped, a dry laugh floating in his mouth that he spat out as a guffaw. Hell, he was a cop.

He took another couple of steps, letting out a cry. Leaning against a wall, he examined the bottom of his bare foot; a three inch piece of broken glass was embedded halfway. Gritting his teeth, Lassiter yanked the glass out. Pain was immediate, blinding, real, shocking his system back into drive. Blood gushed fast. Lassiter stuck his foot gingerly on the ground, searching for something to wrap his foot. Nothing. He knew he'd have to use the t-shirt; what was a little more red on it anyway? Propping his injured foot, Lassiter pulled the t-shirt over his head and tore off the top part, where there wasn't any dried blood. He wrapped the rest of the mess around his waist; eventually he would need to know who belonged to that blood. Lassiter quickly tied the partially clean ripped cloth around his foot. It hurt bad to put his full weight on it, and he knew from the gushing that his makeshift bandage wouldn't last long. Every step rammed pain from the bottom of his foot to the top of his head, but he focused on how much it hurt because it kept him more alert than he'd been all day. Pain, pain, pain, a heart beat.

Lassiter continued to walk. Fatigue was setting in; the sun seemed to hang lower in the sky. Finally he could make out people ahead. Bicycles, kids in Hawaiian shirts and bathing suits, men and women in semiprofessional office clothes, open shops with lots of people coming and going. He was scanning the area for a pay phone when he heard a scream, almost in his left ear. Irritated, he turned with a grimace. A trio a teenagers stood five feet from him, all staring with horror. A girl with short brown hair was pressing a hand to her mouth. Another girl and a boy looked him up and down, neither knowing what to say. Then Lassiter heard someone say, "Hey, dude, are you okay?" He turned his head to a young guy who looked like the surfer type.

"I'm, uh," Lassiter began. His words were too thin. He was starting to feel faint again. Blood was pooling at his feet.

He took a deep breath and forced the words out, stringy and gooey as they were.

"My name is Detective Carlton Lassiter. I'm Head Detective with the Santa Barbara Police Department. I'm injured and I need an ambulance. Please call 911."

Those few sentences took a lot of strength. The world slanted, but if he was falling, Lassiter didn't know.