Not that it will do any good if the powers that be come after me - but no money involved, no harm intended, not mine at all, more's the pity!

First appeared in Crossroads - Thanks, Seah, for the wonderful edit!

This was orginally written shortly after Warriors was aired, but before Sentinel Too, so I guess it has to be considered an AU of a sorts.

"Why don't we ask him?" Jim looked down into the parking lot and into Incacha's upturned face. The Chopec was standing next to Jim's truck, stroking the hood, looking for all the world as if he seriously approved of Jim's ride. Despite the circumstances, Jim couldn't help but return his old friend's smile, and he tapped Sandburg's arm. "Wait here. I'll bring him up."

"Sure," Blair agreed, his face saying that he understood Jim wanted a chance to greet the shaman privately.

Grateful-again-for his partner's perception, Jim hurriedly left, practically running down the stairs. Throwing open the door, he wasn't surprised to find Incacha standing on the other side of it, hands already up and welcoming. Latching onto the native's forearms as his own were gripped, Jim said in Quechua, "It is so good to see you, my friend. Very surprising, but very good."

"And I, you, Enquiri. I had not thought to see you during this long and strange journey," Incacha returned.

On impulse Jim abandoned formality and gathered his friend into a fierce hug. "I had thought never to see you again at all."

Incacha returned the hug enthusiastically, then stepped back, his face becoming somber. "It must be the will of the gods, then, that we find each other now, when our tribe needs you so much." Jim accepted his duty to the Chopec with an inclination of his head and gestured toward the stairs. "Come, we have much to talk about, and I would like you to meet my companion, Blair."

At Incacha's sudden grin, Jim realized he had used a word to describe his partner that implied more than friendship, but he let it stand. That was how he felt, and he thought Sandburg was beginning to, as well. "The young man who stood beside you?" the shaman asked as they began to climb. Jim nodded, and the Chopec's grin grew wider. "I am glad you have found someone. You were always too much alone. And that one looks strong enough to be companion to a guardian."

"It surprises me constantly just how strong and resourceful he is," Jim admitted proudly. "For a time I forgot myself, and he was the one who helped me return to my path, though I fought doing so. I don't know if I could have existed here as a guardian-Blair calls me sentinel-if he didn't understand."

To Jim's ears, the English word sat oddly amidst the Quechua ones, but Incacha took it and gently twisted so that it fit. "He named you sentinel, and guides you in your gifts? You accept this power over you willingly?"

There was puzzlement in the Chopec's words, and Jim paused on a landing to study the man. "Not at first," he said honestly. "But Blair knew the right of it, and I saw that. Eventually."

"Then your companion is a shaman?" Incacha's obvious confusion was growing, sending prickles of alarm over Jim's skin.

Since by Chopec definition Sandburg could well be considered that, Jim nodded and silently continued up the stairs, trying not to dwell on his reaction to the question. The native followed, moving slowly and obviously thinking. Then he stopped, catching Jim's arm gently. "Do you already share a bed with this young shaman, Enquiri? Or do you only court him?"

The prickles gathered at the base of Jim's spine, making him draw away from his friend to gradually straighten himself to his full height. "He shares my life, Incacha, as no other, not even you, ever has, but not yet my bed. We grow together, I think, learning the trust and faith we need to begin that part of our lives."

"Then he is forbidden to you, sentinel," Incacha said firmly, holding Jim's eyes with ancient authority. "It is not your right to claim him by word or deed."

Astounded, instinctively throwing out a hand to steady himself on the wall as he stumbled back, Jim inhaled sharply at the blow.

"Incacha...." he began, not sure if he was going to plead or argue.

"Listen to me, Enquiri," the Chopec broke in firmly. "The shaman's path is a very difficult one. It can blind and deafen us to all but the desperate cries of our people in need. We cannot help but answer, giving all we must to do what we can. The stronger the call, the more we give."

"You," Incacha lightly touched the center of Jim's chest, "needed and he came. That does not mean he is yours, Enquiri. Though you might be able to hold him to you for a time through the bonds of that need, though you might be able to satisfy his every physical delight and so capture him even longer, he is not yours.

"You must let the young shaman walk his own path, sentinel, not wander in the shadow of yours. To do so would destroy him. It may be that he will travel beside you, but if that is to happen, your Blair must be true to his own calling first."

Wanting, needing, to fight Incacha's decree, Jim opened his mouth only to snap it shut at the implacable expression on the Chopec's face. Unwillingly he confessed gruffly, "There is truth in your words. I've seen him struggle to reconcile his own life with mine too many times not to wonder what damage I've done. Or to worry that if he would do so much for a friend, how much more for a lover? And what harm that would cause him.

"But, Incacha, I need him as my friend, my guide. It is not within me to send him away."

"Nor must you," Incacha told him bluntly. "It is only that you must accept that he is only friend and guide, until he wishes otherwise. Swear to me, Enquiri. Swear that you will let the young shaman come to you in his own time."

Feeling as if he were trying to crush rock with his jaw, Jim sharply shook his head once. Compassion filled Incacha's eyes, and he carefully took Jim's shoulders between his hands. "If you were so sure before I spoke that you would be lovers, if you were already content to let it happen as it would, then your heart must be very full for him. Surely you believe that he cares, that he will want you, or you would not have been so patient. Can you not trust that, Enquiri?"

Above them the stairwell door popped open, and Blair called out worriedly, "Jim, man, you guys down there?"

"On our way, Sandburg," Jim answered automatically, looking up at his partner. The sight of his friend's relief and the huge smile sent his way inexpressibly reassured Jim, and he was able to say calmly to Incacha, "I know his heart beats with mine, shaman, even if he does not. Before your words, I waited for a moment when I could show him that with a touch. Now I wait for him to discover it on his own. It's not so different." Pausing, hand clenched over his equally clenched stomach, he added reluctantly, "I swear."

Wisely Incacha said nothing, but let Jim lead him the rest of the way into the loft. Later when the shaman slyly asked in Sandburg's hearing what the younger man's role was in Jim's life, the anthropologist's answer let Jim feel a little of the faith he had pretended. Though Blair's words were of mutual learning, his hands spoke of union, and Jim shared a knowing grin with Incacha, sure the Chopec saw that as well.

It wasn't until he and Blair were in the truck on the way to meet with Janet that he had his first pang of fear. Physically hurting, he couldn't reply in kind to his companion when Blair confessed his concerns for their partnership with Jim's sentinel abilities gone. Hiding the pain behind words he didn't even hear as they left his mouth, he changed the subject as quickly as he could, reminding himself strongly that he knew how to wait.

Lying on his bunk, feeling the prison settle into the muffled stillness that passed for night here, Jim anchored himself with the memory of his partner, then edged up the dials on his hearing. Eyes closed, he tried to filter out the background noises-water dripping, metal springs creaking, body noises from his cell-mate-and mentally searched for meaning in what he heard.

Most of the fragments of words and conversations were useless to him, but he kept sifting, looking for something he could use.

"Please?"

Eyes flying open, Jim lost the word, shocked by the resemblance the speaker's voice had to Blair's. Without effort he locked onto the sound of the plea being softly repeated, so softly that Jim could hardly hear it clearly. "Please?"

"No, baby," a deeper voice rumbled, barely louder than the first. "I need it this way tonight."

"Let me suck you, instead," the first voice asked, this time the Latino heritage showing clearly in it. It became coaxing, seductive, loving, and it was the last that held Jim's attention against his will. "You know how much you love using my mouth, love the heat of it. Come on, beautiful, roll over and let me gobble you up."

"God, you slut, you know how to get what you want, don't you?" the second man ground out. "But not tonight." Taking his turn at cajoling, he went on, "Baby, don't make me beg here. I gotta feel you in me; I gotta."

Tentatively giving faces to the voices, Jim shuddered, understanding why the Latino was arguing. Being forced into bottoming at times was unavoidable here, and there was no particular stigma in getting nailed against your will if you didn't let it break you. But to like bottoming, to want it-if that was discovered, the best you could hope for was to be passed from rapist to rapist, no matter how hard you fought.

The Latino's partner was a huge, burly man who walked the walk with enough arrogance to have earned respect, and with it a certain amount of safety. He used that to shelter his smaller bunkmate, though the two of them treated each other with mutual belligerence outside their cell. If the other inmates ever suspected the big man turned over for his partner, their precarious security would vanish. Both were taking an incredible risk just talking about it.

"God, God, God, God," the Latino moaned. "How'm I supposed to say no to that ass, up in the air and beggin' like that?"

Dropping into huskier tones, the other man answered, "Don't, baby, don't. Just do me! Do me!"

There was a muttered curse, some rustlings of cloth and bedframe, then small noises told Jim they were beginning. Both were as silent as humans could manage, though to the sentinel they might as well have been performing for a porno movie.

Unbidden, his own cock raced to full hardness, throbbing in time to the furtive sliding rhythm of the two prisoners. Holding in his own sighs at the stifled ones that escaped the lovers, Jim forced himself to stay motionless, keeping his hands loosely at his sides. It didn't matter that he wouldn't touch himself; the thought of the forbidden, secret passion was almost enough by itself to trigger him.

He heard the big con come with a breathed, "... no... no," his lover following him with only a strangled inhale to betray his finish. Not permitting even that much, Jim finished as well, taking no pleasure in the bitter release.

When it faded, he grimaced at the mess in his clothes, resigning himself to not being able to clean up right away. His cellmate was still awake, and in the deadly ballet of dominance going on between them, he couldn't afford to let even the natural weakness of sexual need show.

Grimly he returned to his audio surveillance of the prison, but sentry duty took too little of his attention. The rest of his mind was stubbornly replaying the overheard lovemaking-featuring himself and Blair in place of the original participants.

Needing to stop the imagined voice of Blair saying, "No, lover, no, not like this-it's too dangerous. Please!" Jim made himself face the improbability of his shaman ever wanting him.

It was his own fault, he knew. Though on the surface nothing had changed since Incacha's death, there was an undercurrent now that was steadily eroding their relationship. He had been trying to keep his companion close with one hand-belittling Blair's romantic involvements, criticizing his choice in women, even going to so far as to physically rein him in from the chase once or twice with a hand on the shoulder or forearm. And he was pushing Sandburg away with the other by stepping up his own pursuit of unwanted women though he had no idea what to do when he caught one.

It didn't help that since giving his word to Incacha not to approach Blair, Jim had veered between absolute belief that his partner loved him and total rage that he couldn't get the younger man to see that. Thankfully Sandburg had attributed the latter to stress, and Jim had gratefully fostered that notion.

Jim knew how much his recent behavior had upset Blair. In fact, Jim was confusing, worrying, frustrating, annoying, and downright angering his roommate. And couldn't stop himself because of his own state of mind.

With an inaudible snort, he admitted that whatever chance he had had to win Blair was long gone. All he could do now was try to salvage their friendship and that meant backing off, keeping his hands to himself, and giving his partner whatever he needed to do his job, not Jim's. Maybe Blair could learn to need him if he were there for his guide. Maybe he'd make a place for Jim in his life if he felt he could rely on Jim's support. Maybe Jim could even hope somehow, somewhere along the road, Blair would come to love him.

Maybe.

What good does it for a man to have ears that will hear for a thousand miles if he cannot listen to the whispers of his own heart?

Over and over Jim heard Gabriel's softly spoken words, as if the man claiming to be an angel stood at his elbow talking to him. Standing in his customary spot by the balcony doors, overlooking a city slowly filling with daylight and activity, Jim tried to dismiss the warning yet again. But could not. Could not.

Out there, in the unforgiving brightness of the morning sun, Sandburg was handing in the preliminary chapter of his thesis. Total strangers were reading impartial, remote words dissecting Jim's work, his habits, his life. Words that described him as a coward and bully, too fucked up to function without a keeper.

When he'd agreed to be Sandburg's research subject, he had expected only quantitative data to be used, or generalized comparisons between himself and the ancient sentinels Blair believed in. The last thing he had expected was for the anthropologist to hold him up to the scrutiny of passionless, remote academics who cared nothing for the real person behind the words. To them, he was only the object of a promising student's research. Apparently, to Blair as well.

All this time, all these *years,* he had thought they were beyond researcher and subject. Had thought they were friends, regardless of the recent strain between them.

Jim had mistakenly believed that the growing distance had been unavoidable. Not only part of Blair discovering who and what he truly was, but a side effect of Jim's trying not to need the other man so much. The undercover work at the insane asylum, championing Cassie and helping her with research, even standing up to Finkleman in Jim's defense-all were evidence to him that Blair was learning he walked the shaman's way, as Jim and Incacha had believed he would.

Even when Ray had died and Blair had shut him out, Jim had been sure his friend had only needed time to deal with the loss. That Blair would turn to him eventually for strength and comfort. But it had lasted and lasted, and finally Jim had taken off himself, claiming he needed the space, hoping to give Sandburg privacy to mourn and a chance to miss him.

Having Blair offer to move out instead should have warned Jim that something was seriously wrong between them. Having the damned dissertation rear its head again should have warned him. Hell, having Blair confess he could accept being less than number one in a woman's life, if he loved her, should have warned him. After all, better to be number two to a female, than to be the end all and be all of a man you had no respect for, right?

The bottom line was that Blair didn't love, couldn't love, had never loved him. How could a shaman with the kind of strength his guide had ever consider mating with an aged, frightened, unwanted, damaged fraud like himself, sentinel or not?

Gabriel was right. He should have listened to his heart long before. Today Sandburg had proven beyond a doubt Jim's midnight hopes were just so much vapor to be burned away in the heat of the sun. If he had listened, he wouldn't be standing here now, too in shock to feel the pain. Wouldn't have pathetically tried to back-pedal, sucking up to Sandburg like a whipped dog by okaying the chapter.

The hell of it was that it was good from a professional point of view. And it was Blair's life work, research that Jim had co-operated with and given permission to use. He had no right to blame the anthropologist for his own stubborn blindness to the facts of life. The only person who really deserved his fury was himself. He'd have to do a better job of apologizing to Sandburg for giving his partn...roommate the brunt of it, again.

Creakily he turned toward the interior of the loft, thinking to call and see if Sandburg was coming back to sleep part of the day. He was going to wait until night himself, when he could shelter unseen in the darkness. Maybe then he'd be able to face the shards of his life and begin to deal with it.

Before he could pick up the phone, it rang unexpectedly, making him take a step back. With superstitious dread he stared at it, then shook himself violently. Only coincidence. Snatching it up, he barked, "Yeah?"

Over the line, Simon told him tersely, "Easy there, detective. I haven't been to sleep yet either."

Rubbing his forehead, Jim answered more mildly, "Sorry, sir. Actually, I wasn't planning on it for a while. Caught me on the way to the gym." Sorta

"Meet me at 413 Walnut Street, instead." His captain sounded more than tired, more than weary. "I'll give you the details when I get there because I'm looking for a fresh perspective on this, an unbiased eye to look past the obvious. Keep that in mind at the scene, okay?"

"An unbiased eye? Past the obvious?" Jim asked carefully, not willing to be dragged into what was beginning to sound like the sort of case that a smart cop would avoid.

"You'll see what I mean when you get there. And Jim, I need answers, or at least a few damned good questions as soon as possible."

"As soon as possible? Simon, why do I have the feeling the mayor is jerking our chain again?"

There was silence on the other end for a moment, then Banks replied slowly, "Much as I hate to admit it, he may have a point this time. I want Sandburg in on it, too, but you can brief him when he gets done at Rainier."

Puzzled, Jim left quickly, making the trip to Walnut in good time. The residence he pulled up in front of was in an upper-middle-class, bordering on wealthy neighborhood. In fact, it had a bit of a reputation for being home to extremely wealthy people who didn't want to go the mansion and limo routine. The money involved would explain how the mayor had gotten involved, but not why.

Ten minutes later, slowly surveying the bedroom of a typical teenager, he was no closer to an answer. The fully dressed body that lay peacefully in the center of the twin bed, head covered with a plastic bag, painted far too clear a picture of suicide for Major Crimes to be involved. On the off chance it was simply a very well done staging, despite the note lying on the too-tidy desk, Jim focused on minutiae, trying to find something out of place.

There was a noise that nagged at him, and he focused on it only to find that it was the portable CD player on the nightstand. Though the headphones were carefully curled on top of it, it had not been turned off and the faint sound was music-by modern definitions, not Jim's. Weaving in and out of the discordant banging and squalling were real words, actually forming something resembling a song.

"Life is filled with painDon'
t fight it
Can't get past the painWhy
fight it
Nothing but hard painCan'
t fight it
Give in to the painWhy
fight it...."

Simon's hand on his shoulder pulled him out of an incipient zone, and Jim tiredly turned to face him. "Why are we here, Simon? This couldn't be a more obvious suicide if we'd walked in at the start."

Glancing around to make sure they had a semi-private space, the captain softly told him, "It's the third in four weeks in this neighborhood. Two of them, including this one, hadn't shown any warning behavior at all, and, on the surface at least, had no reason to be that depressed."

"Parents thinking suicide pact?" Jim asked as quietly. "The chances of that are pretty slim. Kids might make those, but the healthy ones don't go through with it."

"They don't know what to think." At the skeptical look on Jim's face, Simon went on, "Yeah, yeah, I know-denial and all that, but Jim, I've already talked to the parents on this one. The kid was a good student, not great, but not in trouble by any means. Good social life, tight circle of friends-and the other two suicides weren't in it, just part of the local crowd. Something is wrong about this."

Giving the room a last look, Jim said, "Nothing here to point to it, Simon. Want me to check out the other two scenes or talk to parents?"

"First one was a jumper at Taylor's Bluff; second was a gunshot done in her car. It's been impounded, so you'll find it on the lot. Let Sandburg handle the parents; he's better at that kind of thing."

The stab of pain was entirely unexpected, but Jim successfully hid it. Yeah, Blair was good with people; that was part of what a shaman did. And he was proud that Banks not only admitted it, but counted on it. *I ought to know he's good,* he thought bitterly, regardless. He's been handling me long enough. Forcefully he dismissed the feeling as petty, and returned to the matter at hand.

"He'll probably check in with me when he's done at the U," Jim said, more irritation than he wanted coming out and ignoring the flash of surprise because of it on Simon's face. "But I'll leave a message at his office to call you."

"Do that." Banks said hastily.

"Meantime, I'll look over the car." Without giving Simon a chance to reply, he took off, reluctantly taking out his cell to leave the promised message.

At the impound garage he found the old Mustang from the second suicide tucked away in one corner. Used to him coming down to do his thing, the staff didn't even give Jim a second look as he started slowly working over the car. After checking both the inside and outside, he covered the driver's seat in plastic and sat, comparing what he sensed here and at the house. *Nothing consistent between the two,* he decided.

On impulse he turned on the engine, immediately clapping his hands over his ears at the sound blasting from the speakers. Okay, nothing except that both kids had horrible taste in music! Fumbling at the unfamiliar console, he got the volume all the way down, though he could faintly hear music if he concentrated. *More banging,* he grumped.

On the unlikely chance there had been an unknown passenger with the young girl who had died, he closed his eyes to concentrate on scent. After all the time that had passed, it was unlikely he'd be able to pick any up that didn't belong to the impound crew, but it was all he could think of to try.

Nothing out of the ordinary there, either. Fast food-Wonderburger, he'd bet-cosmetics, several different perfumes, books, chalk, fabric softener... Lulled by how ordinary the smells were, off guard because of his fatigue, Jim began to break each smell into basic components, becoming lost in the multitude of elements.

It was a single tear sliding from his jaw and dropping onto his chest that jolted him out of the zone. Automatically he dried off his face, turned off the CD player in mid verse-"

Give in to the painWhy
fight it...."

And left the car. Departing hurriedly for the next site, he didn't look around to see if anyone had noticed his lapse.

At Taylor's Bluff too much time and too much weather had passed for even a sentinel to find any evidence of the tragedy that had happened there.

Discouraged, he drove back into Cascade, heading for the gym rather than going back to the loft before the peace and solitude of dark. Nearing an intersection, he looked ahead to see his light change to red and an eighteen-wheeler moving through toward its green at a good pace. Almost as if he were merely a spectator, he watched his own vehicle keep going, never hesitating for the stop light. Analytically he decided he would collide about where the gas tank was on the big rig, and that everyone would think he'd fallen asleep at the wheel after a long shift.

He was less than twenty feet from the truck when the mule-stubborn, in-love-with-Blair part of himself kicked him in the head and made him react. Squealing tires and blasting horns accompanied him as he used every ounce of skill and training he had to maneuver around the other truck, not hit it. Clipping it with his bumper, he spun, got it under control, and yanked his Ford into a parking lot, braking it to a stop inches before side-swiping several vehicles.

Stupidly he sat and stared out the windshield, trying to fathom what had nearly happened. It made no sense, no sense at all. Yes, he was lost, more lost than he had ever been in his life. But for as long as he could remember, there had been no one that particularly cared if he lived or died, and he lived anyway. If no one else valued him -and Blair's face rose behind his unseeing eyes-he valued himself and knew, small as it was, he did good in a world that didn't have much in it. Damned if he was going to quit now. No. No. No.

Unaware that his chin was jutted out as if he were daring someone to hit him, he put the truck in gear and slowly, precisely returned to driving to the gym.

Sitting at his desk in the bullpen, Blair bent over his organizer and tried to figure out how to put a few more hours in the day. He'd thought once the grants had been taken care of, his chapter in, he'd have more free time. But he'd been getting four hours of sleep, if that much, since the day he'd met with his committee six weeks ago because Simon had dragged him in on the suicides.

Originally he'd only talked to parents, then Jim had discovered that Westerly High wasn't the only school with too high an incidence of suicides in Cascade. It was merely the only one whose parents were wealthy enough to get an important person's attention over it. Next thing Blair knew, he was acting as a University liaison as the psych department and PD helped set up counseling groups and awareness programs in the local schools. Which was only fair since it was his idea. Then he got roped into working with those groups because they were so short-staffed, and he didn't know how to say no to kids in need. All that was in addition to his university responsibilities and duties here at the station.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat down for a peaceful dinner and evening of mindless TV with Jim. Or had a conversation with his partner that lasted for more than 10 minutes that wasn't work related. To his surprise, he missed that part of their lives; missed Jim, though he saw him for at least a few minutes nearly every day.

Absently he stroked the leather cover of the organizer, thinking of his roommate and friend. Jim had given it to him for the holidays last year, with important dates and parts of his schedules Jim knew already written in. At the time he'd laughed, making jokes about being too disorganized to use an organizer. But Jim had asked a question from it here, made a suggestion to add an appointment there, and next thing he knew he was reaching for it every time he made a commitment or thought of something that needed done. There were even scraps of research notes in it by now.

Not that different from keeping a journal, really. And for some obscure reason, he liked opening it and seeing his own hasty scrawls crashing into Jim's neat, precise handwriting. It was so like the other man to find a way to help Blair without making a big production of it. He should make a joke or two to Jim about the gift being to stop him from being late all the time so his partner would know he appreciated the gift. With a rueful grin, he thought about penciling in "Dinner, game on tube with Jim," so he actually could and went back to finding a free block of time for taking Lisa to that exhibit she was so interested in.

He was flipping back and forth, frustrated, when Connor cleared her throat noisily to get him to look up. "Hi, Megan," he said cheerfully. "Do you have a real hour or two that you could loan me so I can do something besides work?"

"I'd never get it back, Sandy," Megan laughed. "You're the most over-booked person I've ever known."

Going back to the organizer, Blair muttered, "Well, it was worth a try. Maybe if I don't sleep again on the...."

With another nervous sound, Megan said, "Actually, I was going to ask a favor, if you don't mind."

Waving at his cluttered desk, Blair answered distractedly, "Ask, but don't expect, okay?"

"Grab a coffee so we can speak privately?" Her voice was very serious, and Blair looked at her and saw that, laugh or no laugh, she was very agitated. "Sure," he agreed instantly, standing. She led him toward the break room, not talking at all the whole way. To his surprise Joel, Rafe, Henri, Rhonda, Serena, Dan, and a couple of others from the department were in there already, standing around and looking even more upset.

"Hey, guys. What's up?" he said, proud of the calm he showed, though his stomach was diving for the lobby.

They all looked at each other, at the floor, then at Megan at his side as if she had just been nominated spokesperson by silent ballot. "Aw, hell," she muttered, then turned to face Blair directly. "Sandy, is there something we should know about Jim?"

For one heart-killing second, Blair thought that someone had found his chapter and put two and two together. They knew Jim was a sentinel and were pissed at being lied to for the past three years. But it wasn't anger that was on everyone's face, and Conner wouldn't have been so calm after being fooled by Jim's 'psychic' abilities. His momentary panic came out sounding like pure surprise, thank God. "About Jim? What about him?"

Unbidden, the idea that his partner had been hurt and they were trying to tell him in this strange way bounced into his head. "He's okay, right? I mean, you don't...."

"No, nothing like that, I swear," Joel broke in hastily. "It's just-." He hesitated, looking around at the other people. "We've all noticed," he went on slowly, "that, well, he isn't looking too good these days."

"And not acting like the Ellison we all know and love," Rhonda put in dryly.

"Huh?" Blair blurted, brilliantly. He lived with the man. Surely if something were wrong.... Of course, lately Jim either got in way after him or was in bed by the time he got home himself, so he rarely actually shared the loft for more than a few hours now. "I mean, I haven't noticed anything."

Very gently Megan touched his arm. "He's lost a lot of weight. Still damned good-looking, of course...."

"But I've seen him working out," Rafe put in, "and it's a strain for him to do half of what he used to be able to do without breathing hard."

"Half the time the man used to walk around with junk food in his hand, and he was the donut girl's best customer. Now he takes a few bites of whatever he's supposed to be eating, makes a face, and puts it down." That was Rhonda again.

"Not working any over-time," Brown put in.

What? Blair thought dazedly, thinking of all the times he'd come home to a dark loft, but he didn't say anything as Henri kept talking. "Not first on the scene in the field, holds back, letting other officers go first, or volunteers to be back-up. Like he doesn't want to risk getting hurt. Risk bleeding."

"That's not even half of it." Megan took over. "Couple of days ago he was questioning a suspect and the perp didn't like the way it was going. So he blows up, even throws a punch. Ellison didn't so much as blink. Held him down, expression never changing, until cuffs could be put on him, then went back to interrogating him as if there'd never been an interruption."

Numbly Blair groped for a chair and fell into it. "God." It was all he could think of to say. Hands going to his head, he scrunched up two fists full of hair as if that would help him think faster. He shot back up almost immediately. "Okay, you guys must have a theory or idea or something that I'm not going to like or you expect me to lie about, or you wouldn't be ganging up on me like this. What do you think is going on?"

Half expecting them to ask if it was possible Jim was on drugs, or had lost his nerve, he was completely caught off guard when Joel asked gently, "Blair, what's Jim's HIV status?"

Automatically he blurted, "Negative; got tested because of the Marco case, remember? Got scored by that bloody knife?" Everyone sighed, almost in unison, and Blair plopped back into the chair. A thought hit him hard, but he was too confused to do more than peer up at Megan. "Why think it's AIDS?" he wondered out loud blankly.

At that she looked embarrassed, but not as much as some of the others in the room. There was an unhappy rumbling of voices for a second, some sounding distinctly pained, and Blair took pity on them. "Go on, get out. I'll clear things up with Megan and she'll pass it on. If I get pissed, she'll pass that on too, I'm sure." There were a few half-hearted chuckles, then everybody trooped out, each one taking a moment to pause by him for a word or quick punch/pat/touch.

"Have to blame me for that," she admitted after they had all left, sitting next to him. "Symptoms match-sudden weight loss, no appetite, being extra cautious so as not to get hurt and wind up bleeding all over everybody. Rumor has it he's bi-no reflection on you, Sandy."

"Rumors have been wrong before," was what he said. *Is bi, at his own admission,* he thought. But he says he's not done much more than decide he could be. No reason to think that's changed. Absent or not, he'd find a way to let me know in case he brought someone home. Jim Ellison is too damned polite to spring a boyfriend on me without warning.

Apparently he was quiet too long for Connor's comfort and she giggled, a little uneasily. "True, true. I mean, look at what they say about you."

Forcing himself to pay attention, he grinned. "Oh, I know. Let's see if I can deny them all at once. I'm not gay or bi and having an affair with Jim. I'm not blackmailing Jim into letting me live with him. I am not the illegitimate son of the mayor being babysat by the department to keep me out of trouble. I'm not the heir to a minor European country bullying my way into playing cop. And I'm not trying to write a best-seller based on the cases in Major Crimes. Did I miss one?"

By the time he'd finished listing the rumors he'd heard himself, Connor was laughing and shaking her head. "Hadn't heard the one about being an heir," she gasped at last. "Heavens, Sandy, why don't you just tell them you're Ellison's spiritual advisor?"

That was too much; despite the circumstances, Blair laughed, too. "Can you imagine how that would go over with American cops! They'd rather think he was gay!"

"Oh, my," and she laughed harder. "Dead on!"

They shared their amusement for several minutes, and Blair was standing to leave when she caught his hand. "Seriously, what is wrong with Jim? He doesn't look good."

Unsettled, Blair lost all traces of humor and shrugged uncomfortably. "It's been a hard year for him, Megan. I can't go into details, but there's been a couple of deaths that hit him really bad, and some family problems I'd hoped were going to get better, but got worse. Now he's constantly dealing with all these dead kids, and suicide is just so against everything he believes in, you know?"

With a shudder that should have been melodramatic but came off as truly how she felt, Connor nodded. "I can't even imagine what he feels when he walks into another room filled with a lost spirit. It'd put anybody off, let alone someone as sensitive as your partner."

You have no idea, Megan. You have no idea. Blair gallantly bowed over her hand and kissed it. "Thanks for worrying about him. I appreciate it even if he wouldn't. Please tell the others that Jim's working through some burnout, but it's not serious, will you? As cops they'll understand that and leave him alone. And I'll make a point of taking better care of him, okay?"

"Can do, Sandy. Let him know we're all behind him." She pecked him once on the cheek, mischievously, and left looking very satisfied with herself.

Once alone, he bent over, letting his hair hide his face. Some partner I am if Jim has a problem and everybody knows but me. I haven't been that busy, that involved. Have I? And why the hell didn't he come to me? Am I the cause? I thought we'd worked the whole thing with the diss out. I know I haven't been in his face too much.

Abruptly he stood, heading straight for his desk. Whatever was on the calendar for the rest of the day was going to have to wait; he needed to talk to Jim.

The loft was dark and quiet when he arrived, with no signs Jim had been home since morning: coat hook and basket empty, no truck in its usual spot, no smells of dinner. Disgruntled, Blair put his own things away and settled in for the wait. He was going to stay up as long as it took, but he was going to talk with his roomie tonight.

It wasn't until the alarm went off upstairs that it occurred to Blair his all-nighter had been wasted, mountains of finished paperwork aside. With its familiar sound came equally well-known ones. Jim getting up for work. He'd been home all along, and must have parked his truck a distance away to keep that fact from Blair, the way he'd been hiding other things. But why?

His astonishment hadn't worn off by the time Jim padded down the stairs, shoes, jacket, and keys in hand. "Morning, Chief. Had breakfast yet?" His tone was normal, casual.

Mutely Blair simply stared at him, not sure how to bring up yesterday's conversation in the bullpen or his partner's seeming avoidance of him.

"Chief?"

A theory pulled itself together from the corners of his mind, plausible but without enough evidence for him to be sure. Belatedly he answered, "No, no breakfast." With a visible shake, he brought himself back. "Sorry; running on fumes right now."

Giving him one of his half grins, Jim told him, "So I see. Hope you're going to get to bed soon or you're going to walk right into a wall, you're so out of it."

Stirring himself, Blair waved off his partner. "I'm a grad student; I'm used to it. Not up to cooking, though. You planning on grabbing something?"

"That was the plan. Got time to join me?" Jim sat on the stairs to put on his shoes.

"Sure. Give me five to freshen up." With that Blair darted for his room, the beginning of a plan already forming.

For the rest of the morning he stuck to Jim like they were both on an invisible tether. At breakfast Jim pushed the food around on his plate, not taking more than a bite or two of it, complaining about the cooking. At work he kept his head down and worked hard, methodically, and without the least bit of interest or imagination in what he was doing. Never offering opinions or producing theories or saying one word more than necessary in a conversation, he kept his interaction with the rest of the department to a minimum. He found a reason not to eat lunch, and blew off an invitation from the guys to go out that evening with the excuse he had a date.

And he never once smiled or laughed, even when Blair had the whole bullpen in stitches over a story involving twin sisters, a tropical island, and a weird custom concerning goats.

By the time Blair left for an afternoon appointment he couldn't delay, he was fairly sure he knew what was wrong with his roomie. In his mind, getting Jim to admit it would be the hard part, and the best way to convince a cop is to have incontrovertible evidence. With that as his motivation, he backtracked to the station, waited for Jim to leave-three minutes before his shift ended-and followed him.

He wasn't surprised when the other man went straight to the loft, though it did worry him that Jim didn't spot that he had a tail. Maybe Blair had learned a thing or two about it the past few years, but even before his sentinel abilities kicked in, Jim would have picked up on the most professional shadow.

Parking a few blocks away from the loft, Jim walked the rest of the way home and went inside the building. Blair positioned himself where he could see their home, half-expecting Jim to appear at his usual place on the balcony. But the lights never came on, and there was no flicker of motion at the French doors. After a half-hour, cold and frustrated, imagining Jim's reasonable, calm explanations for his behavior completely obliterating any notions Blair might have, he went in himself.

Again, no coat, no keys, no signs of dinner having been cooked. Just the still, gloomy, quiet loft pretending no one was home. Not trying to be stealthy, Blair climbed the stairs to find a massive lump of blankets in the middle of Jim's bed, snoring softly. At 7 pm on a Friday night, Jim Ellison was sound asleep. That was why he was hiding when he got home; so Blair wouldn't know how much time he was spending in bed.

For a minute he considered waking him and demanding to know what was going on. Then his common sense kicked in, reminding him he hadn't had that much sleep lately, either, and getting Jim to talk to him was going to be one long up-hill battle. Wearily he went back downstairs, seeking his own bed.

His alarm went off obscenely early for a Saturday morning, especially for one when he wasn't going fishing. Getting up wasn't hard, though, and he did so, grumbling at how damned obscenely early he'd gone to bed. By habit he started his Saturday chores, and the morning was mostly gone when he realized Jim hadn't given any sign of waking.

Afraid he'd slept through Jim sneaking out, he retraced his steps of the evening before. The lump was still there, giving every impression of having not moved at all during the night. Truly worried, he sat on the edge of the bed and gave it a wary shove. "Jim, man, you gonna sleep the day away?"

A noise suspiciously like a snarl was his answer, and a heave away from him. After a pause, Blair tried again. "Jim? Come on. It's Saturday." Well, duh. You can think of something better than that. He couldn't, though, and was reaching out for another shake when Jim's head emerged from one end of the cocoon.

"Is there some law I don't know about against sleeping in?" Jim snapped.

"Uh, no, but I was hoping we could drive up to Kayson's Preserve and hike for a few hours. Get out of the city? Maybe take the makings, build a fire, have lunch out there?" Blair improvised.

Rubbing at his hair, Jim sat up, obviously trying to organize his thoughts. "Your latest cancel on you, Chief?"

"No, nothing like that. Look, I've been running my ass ragged for weeks too long, looking at way too many bodies and talking to way too many unhappy kids. I wanted some peace and a chance to recharge, and weird as it may sound, taking along my best friend for some decent, quiet, experienced-in-the-woods company seemed like a good idea at the time." The anger in his own words surprised Blair, but he stuck to it, standing suddenly as if he were going to stomp off.

"Hey," Jim said softly, reaching out to catch Blair's wrist. "I didn't mean for it to sound like that. Look, you haven't had time to do much more than breathe lately, and usually you have a girlfriend that you need to make that up to, that's all."

As reasonable as it sounded, there was a false note in Jim's explanation that Blair wasn't sure he heard. Mollified anyway, he sneaked a small smile at his friend. "Yeah, well, let's not mention our outing to Lisa, okay?"

With a snort, Jim released him and began unwinding himself from his blankets. "Done. Let me get some coffee and toast, then we can head for the Reserve."

"Great!" Blair raced back downstairs and began hastily pulling together his pack for a day of hiking. Experienced in knowing what was needed, it didn't take very long to get ready.

Taking it into the kitchen to add groceries, he saw out of the corner of his eye Jim reach for his cup, reading the newspaper held in his other hand. Nothing strange or out of the ordinary; he'd seen his partner sitting in the exact same spot doing the exact same thing a thousand times. The difference this time was in the hand picking up the coffee.

It was so slender as to be nearly fragile, and it trembled slightly.

Moving on impulse, Blair dropped the pack on the floor and caught Jim's hand in both his own. Staring at it, he abandoned his plan to talk during their hike and said slowly, "For weeks I've been handing out these sheets of paper with lists of warning signs on them. Going over each of those signs with parents, teachers, kids. Change in appetite, change in sleeping habits such as sleeping excessively, losing interest in normal pursuits...."

"Persistent feelings of sadness or worthlessness. I know, Chief, I know. Classic symptoms of clinical depression. Been fighting it over a month now." Jim's tone was matter-of-fact, but he never looked up from their joined hands, either.

Astounded, Blair blurted, "You ... a month! ... Jim?!"

With a genuine smile, Jim said, "Even when you're speechless, you're not, are you, Sandburg?" Silently he continued to study where they touched, then went on. "There's not a whole hell of a lot I can do about it, is there? If I go to a shrink, he'll want to give me meds. Can you imagine what that sort of drug could do to me? Personally, I'd rather not find out. If he'll let me get away with counseling sessions alone, there's nothing he can tell me I don't already know. And no way I'm going to open up to some support group, much as that might help lots of other people.

"All I can do is what I've been doing. Keep to my normal routines as much as possible, try to go on like always, deliberately look for what's good."

Not sure what to say, prepared for a battle he apparently wasn't going to be fighting, Blair did what came naturally and used their linked hands to tug Jim close. Wrapping both arms around the sitting man and restlessly petting the short, dark hair so close to his chest, he mentally fumbled for an approach to take that wouldn't sound like a platitude. Or an accusation.

"You didn't want to worry me or add to my load, I know that, Jim," he said finally. "But you should have told me. Not hidden it."

Shrugging fractionally, Jim pulled away, face calm. "So you could do what? Suffer along with me? The best thing you can do for me is what you always do-be there, be yourself, and you didn't need to know to do that." He tried to smile again. "One of us hurting is plenty, Chief."

"I can do way more than that, man. There are other approaches we could take. Natural herbs, for instance, like St. John's Wort, or special meditations. Acupuncture! What about acupuncture; ever thought about that?"

The sour expression Jim pulled was obviously acting, and he made an effort to banter. "Sandburg, I thought the idea here was to make me feel better. Care to tell me how getting stuck with a thousand needles is going to do that?"

Aloud Blair shot back in offended tones. "Thousands? Hardly. Do you know anything about acupuncture, Jim?" Inside he thought, *WHATEVER it takes, if I have to drag you bodily out of the loft to a fraternity party or offer virgin sacrifices up to ancient gods, the one thing you're going to be sure of is that you're not alone.*

Test version of part two: http://www.squidge.org/archive/cgi-bin/convert.cgi?filename=1/sunrisesunset_a