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In his defense, he really wasn't an idiot. No matter what his dad said.
Over-exuberant? Yes. Immature? Quite possibly. But he wasn't an idiot. He just didn't see the point of constantly being a serious adult. Life was so much better when you could fire pop culture references like a sharp shooter and played around like a silly fool. How many people his age actually frolicked recently? None! 'Normal' people stopped frolicking by the time they were ten and started caring about if people, random hypothetical 'people' they didn't even know, thought they looked stupid. Shawn didn't mind being called an idiot if he retained his whimsy and child-like hope for humanity.
Hope was getting a little thin right now.
Shawn breathed heavily, pacing in rising panic with his hands buried in his hair as he tried desperately to think. His phone was back at the office, charging. Nobody knew where he was going, he wasn't expected anywhere until Monday morning. It was Saturday night. By the time anyone missed him it would be too late. Would they even know where to look? Everyone thought the case was solved. Even if they realized Carson hadn't actually killed his business partner they'd never suspect Winston Carlisle's seventy-six year old gandmother-in-law with the adorable seasonally appropriate puppy sweaters and bad hip was burning people alive in her giant basement klin? Why would they think that the sweet little old lady was responsible? He hadn't even realized it until she had asked him to her empty her kiln and seen what remained of Ol' Winston's Swiss army knife under one of the shelves. Unfortunately that was a second before the door shut and locked him in. Thankfully, the klin heated very slowly. Unfortunately, there was no way out. He was stuck. And he was going to become to human version of one of those fries that got forgotten on the bottom of the oven and turned into a crispy pile of unidentifiable deformed black-stuff.
“Come on, think! Think! Think!” Nothing. He had nothing!
“AAAGGGGHHHHH!” Shawn grabbed one of the shelves and threw it at the door with all his might. Which didn't accomplish much. It just kinda fell over. Maybe . . . vaguely . . . a couple inches towards the door.
Shawn groaned in frustration and his knees buckled, sending him crashing to the ground. He was barely able to catch himself before his face smashed into the floor. His vision swam and spun. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut then blinking rapidly in an effort the clear it. It didn't work. God, he was so hot! And not in the sexy fun way. Though he did have incredibly fantastic hair. And very pretty eyes.
Right. Focus, Shawn. Focus.
Mentally, at least. His eyes were stilling that whole drunk rollercoaster thing, so he wasn't really able to focus those. He had to get out of here. He had to find a way out of here.
He tried to push himself back to his feet and fell right back down, stomach rolling with nausea. Nausea, dizzying, shakiness . . . all symptoms of being way too hot in all the wrong ways.
He was going to die here. He couldn't stand up, he couldn't even see straight, no way was he going to get the door open.
Shawn curled up against the fallen shelf and buried his face in his arms. Stupid. Stupid. He should have told someone where he was, regardless of how harmless the person he was going to meet was. Maybe, if anyone realizes he's missing, his dad will get involved. Between Henry Spencer and Gus, they are bound to realize the Tupperware container of Mrs. Morris' brownies was missing and realized he must have gone to return it. Little old Mrs. Morris isn't clever enough of a criminal to come up with a convenient excuse or story, she'll deny having seen him at all. She isn't the type to have thrown out the Tupperware, so they would be able to confirm she'd lied about that easily. From that, his dad would make to connection between Winston Callisle's method of death and the giant kiln, hence figuring out where Shawn must be.
At a minimum, depending on if Gus ranted about Shawn eating the last of the brownies in front of his dad or not, it would take three days for them to find him. That would be how long it took shawn to make the necessary deduction. Unfortunately Shawn would have long since burned to a crisp by that point.
Shawn choked out a sob, the salt of his tears uncomfortable against his hot skin. “Dad, if there was ever a time you were a better detective then me, it would be now.” he whispered hoarsely. His dad was always harping on and on about how Shawn's lack of focus affected his detective work adversely. Shawn has spent his whole trying to prove he can be just as good as his father without becoming the ultra serious carbon copy he always felt like his dad wanted him to be. Under any other circumstances the slightest suggestion of his dad 'wining' would be tantamount to the worse thing ever.
Now he wanted nothing more for his dad to come charging in, throwing open the door and shouting his name.
“Shawn?!”
Yeah, just like that. Wait . . .
Shawn startles as a hand cups one side of his face, the other grabbing one of his arms.
“Shawn!” his dad exclaims urgently, leaning in close as he kneels on one need beside Shawn, expression a mix of urgency, anger and worry.
This . . . was this real? “Dad?” he breathed, stunned. How. . . ?
“Good God, Shawn.” his dad breathed, a mix of relief and distress clear in his voice and across his face. “Let's get you out of here.” Henry Spencer shifted to pull one of his son's arms over his shoulders, wrapping an arm around his waist. The older man grunted as he pulled his son to his feet. Shawn stumbled a bit and leaned heavily against his dad as he was led out of the kiln. Shawn blinked uncertainly at the scene that met him at the top of the stairs, which had been an awkward climb to say the least. Mrs. Morris was handcuffed and sitting in one of her green arm chairs as Lassiter stood over her with a scowl, her blinking up at him like a concerned granny. They both turn to look at at him and his dad step into the living room and for a moment Shawn sees something dangerous pass across Mrs. Morris' face. Like what Harold and Greta must have seen cross the witch's face when she revealed she was going to eat them.
“It's Hansel and Gretel, Shawn. God, I'm so glad you're alright!” Gus exclaimed as he rushed over to them and rolled his eyes fondly.
“Yeah. Fine as buttered toast.” Shawn assured him wearily. Minus the butter, of course. “How did you find me?” he asked as his dad settled him in one of the chairs, trying to ignore the killer granny glaring at him.
“Gus realized you'd gone to return that tupperware and O'Hera realized Granny Homicide here couldn't have known about the Winston Carlisle's 's head wound unless she was there before he was barbecued.” Lassiter answered scowling.
Huh. He hadn't thought of that. Shawn slumped back into the chair with a pained wince, eyes closing as the stress of the last few hours caught up with him. He was lucky Juliet was as smart as she was pretty.
He passed out in the chair and so never realized he'd said that last part out loud or saw the amused looks the other three men traded over his head.