Not mine, unfortunately. This story was done for fan enjoyment only and no money is being made from it.

Thanks to my many friends and betas: CJ, Elly Daniels, Lucy, Theresa Kyle, Sherry and Dar and others for encouraging me as I toiled on this long, long sequel. Also, thanks to the SIZZLER voters who awarded this story best novella at last year's ConneXions!

For those worried about permanent injury, I've said all along that this story has a happy ending -- and it does. Fear not. It's science fiction, remember?

This story is a sequel to: Phantom Pain, Phantom Pain -- Jim

God, I miss Jim.

There, that's the tenth time that thought has crossed my mind today. Maybe I can get on with what I'm trying to do now. I'm tired. My legs hurt... legs that aren't there hurt like they are. Should be used to it now.

Actually, I kinda am. It's a dull pain, something that's always with me, like a toothache you get used to 'cause you don't want to go to the dentist. It's almost the same as the pain missing Jim gives me. That's a pain I've gotten used to too in these last three weeks. But like the phantom pain, it's always there.

Better get my stuff together to get to class. I'm pretty used to pushing myself around in this chair and getting around this apartment is easy, what with all the cabinets low enough for me to reach them and everything else set up for being handicapped. I actually like it here. I like working again. The only time I stop thinking about Jim and stop feeling the pain is when I'm teaching a class. It's only Anthro 101, but that's okay. For some reason, the students listen to me and the feeling of having them interested in what I have to say gives me the energy to make it all interesting for them. The past and the pain all seem to fade away and I'm alive again, I'm Professor Sandburg, out to make the world understand how cool anthropology can be.

"Blair? You ready?"

That's Bill Bookman, my teaching assistant. He was assigned by the university to kinda help me out. I think he volunteered for the job. He's enthusiastic and pretty nice but sometimes he gets on my nerves, like now. I've told him not to just walk in like that but he always forgets. Guess he doesn't mean anything by it. He said he doesn't like to have to make me go to the trouble of getting to the door to open it for him. I could lock it, I guess...

"Yeah, I'm ready," I answer as he strides into the living area. "What's the weather like today?" I haven't been able to decide whether to take a jacket or not.

"It's chilly. I'll get your wind breaker, okay?"

He sounds eager to help. He's really supposed to run errands on campus for me, meet with students if I don't have time, stuff like that. But he's kind of assigned himself to being my companion. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. I probably look lonely. And I am. I was always used to having people around all the time.

"I'll get it," I say, wheeling over to the closet and reaching inside. The wind breaker's on a low hook behind the door.

Bill follows me; as always, he's kind of hovering. He stands close, leans over my shoulder. "You are really doing great, you know?"

"Thanks." I shrug into the jacket, shifting the backpack on my lap. It slips, almost hitting the floor.

"I got it!" Bill leans down to grab the pack, his eyes on my legs as he bends. The direction of his gaze makes me uncomfortable. "Here." He hands me the pack and I notice the fingers of his left hand brush across the edge of my pants, the part that covers the end of my leg.

I can't help grimacing.

"Are you okay?" He sounds anxious. "Are your stumps hurting again today?"

I swallow a shudder. I hate it when he says 'stumps' like that. It's not a word I'm comfortable with. The doctors say 'residual limb' and that's a euphemism I can live with. I've never told him I hate to hear him use 'stump' though. It isn't a word I even like to say or discuss, so I try to ignore his use of it.

"No. I'm fine." I can hear the tension in my own voice.

"Blair," he says, giving me a look. "You can tell me, you know." His brown eyes are wide and I know he means well. I know he wants me to trust him, confide in him, but... he's not somebody I know.

I used to make friends easily. But not any more. I'm different now.

Yeah, there's a part of me that hurts, a part that's lonely, but... I just can't open up to someone like this, someone I don't know. I couldn't even open up to Jim anymore, how can I do it with a stranger?

"It... it's not there," I tell Bill finally. The pain isn't in the part of me that's still there. It's in the part that isn't.

"Oh," says Bill, a knowing look in his eyes. "You need me to go pick up your prescriptions for you?"

I let him do it once, and now he thinks it's another part of his job. He knows all the stuff I have to take and that makes me feel weird about it. Besides, the stuff doesn't work all that well.

"No. I'm fine with those too." I take better hold of my backpack and nod toward the door. "I'd better get to class."

"Right. Don't want to be late." Bill takes hold of my chair handles and helps me adjust position so I can get out the door. I could have done it myself but I don't tell him to stop.

He walks beside me as I head out of the building to class. Bill talks about the weather, asking me what it's like up in Cascade.

"Cold. It rains more than it does here," I answer automatically. Although it's okay to hear the sound of someone's voice, it's not really the voice I'd prefer to be listening to.

But to hear that voice takes a phone call. I promised myself that I wouldn't keep calling Jim, that I'd wait to call him again. I'd wait 'til I was all settled in and teaching and let him know I'm doing okay.

Okay, so I'm settled. I'm teaching. I'm doing okay.

It's been three weeks since classes started.

But I still haven't called him.

I should. Maybe I should.

But what if hearing his voice gets to me so bad I can't help asking him to drop everything and come here?

I don't want to do that. He said he'd come and bring me my stuff I had to leave when I came here on the plane. I know he'd do it the minute I ask.

But somehow, I can't, not yet. I want to prove to myself I can handle being on my own first. I came here to let go, didn't I? So I can't go running to him when I get lonely...

Running... that's a good one.

"Blair?"

Bill is leaning close to me again, looking at me anxiously. He must have heard me sigh.

I manage a grin. "I'm fine." God, I get so sick of saying that.

We've arrived at the Anthro building.

"Anything you need me to do?" Bill asks as I head into the classroom. Some of my students are already there and I nod in greeting to them.

"Yeah." I unzip my backpack and dig out the test I wrote last night. "Can you get a hundred copies of this run off at the printer's for me?" Since it's a sophomore class and I need so many, it has to be taken to the print shop across campus.

"Sure." Bill sounds eager, glad for something to do for me. "You doing office hours today?"

"Yeah, 'til five." I know why he's asking. He's planning on coming back to pick me up when I'm through. "But if you have something to do, don't worry. I know the way back to my place by now."

He doesn't take the offered out. "I'll be there," he says, sounding earnest, "don't worry."

No, Bill, I'm not worried. I know you'll be there.

He leaves and I turn to my class, relieved to be on my own again. One of the girls in the front row gives me a dazzling smile and I catch myself grinning back.

Another day in Major Crime. Another typical, boring day. I hear bits of conversations about the cases, or jokes between my co-workers but I keep to myself. I work without a partner now, most of the time. Once in a while, Simon assigns Megan or Joel to ride with me if the case seems to warrant it. The rest of the time, I'm on my own. I do my job, come and go, and that's it. I sit here, pretending I care about the crimes I'm investigating, pretending I'm still a good cop, but I'm not. I don't care who gets murdered, what gets stolen. It's my job to do the detective work, but it's just a job now. I can't care about it the way I used to. I feel like there's nothing I care about any more. I used to care about Blair.

But he's gone. Been gone for almost a month now. He called me once in that time but that's it. He asked me not to try to find his phone number or contact him. It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do... well, not really. It's only part of the hardest thing I've ever done -- the thing that started the day we had the accident and I did what I did to save Blair's life. He said he doesn't hate me for it... I guess he doesn't know that I hate me for doing it. I hate that I had no choice but to do it, I hate that he didn't want me to do it and I couldn't do what he wanted. I hate that he would have died if I hadn't done it and that he wanted to die and didn't want to live like this and that I forced him to. I hate that he wanted to die. I hate that I couldn't let him die.

He doesn't hate me, he says now. I guess that means he understands why I did it. When he first told me that, it made me feel a little better. I hung onto it like it was a piece of gold. But the words seem tarnished now, since I've run them through my head a million or so times since I heard them. He doesn't hate me. But he doesn't want to be around me, live with me, be my partner, my friend. My guide.

I don't actually need a guide, per se, any more, of course. I'm not a sentinel any more. I think that's one of the things that makes me not care about my job any more. I'm an average cop now -- not that when I first got my sentinel senses I didn't ask about a zillion times to just be average again -- but now that my senses are permanently downgraded to normal, I miss them. I miss them for lots of reasons but the main one is that without them, Blair felt that much more useless. I'd give anything to have been able to give him a reason to try to pull out of his depression. But I couldn't even do that for him.

My head hurts. I try to convince myself it's from staring at the computer screen so much. I close my eyes, rub my fingers over them, massage my temples a few minutes.

"Jim? Do you have that old file from the Warren case?"

Megan's voice invades my dark, quiet peace. Eyes still closed, I take my fingers off my eyes and lean over to pull out my bottom drawer. The file Megan wants is in the back. It's one we weren't able to solve so I keep it there, open more or less, if any new evidence ever shows up.

I open my eyes to find it and even though the light isn't bright, I have to squint. I get the file and as I'm sitting up, I flip it open. My gaze falls on handwritten notes on the first page.

Blair's handwriting.

"Unhhhh!" The groan is ripped out of me, half shock, half pain. The light. It's too bright. The words on the page -- huge. Sharp edged. Like knives in my eyes.

"Jim?" Megan is next to me. I can feel her hands on my shoulders, smell her perfume. "What's wrong?"

"I... " I sit up, glance around the room cautiously. I take a deep breath. I know what it was, but I can hardly believe it. "Migraine," I lie. It was a sensory spike. I haven't had one in so long I hardly recognized it, but that's what it was. My senses, totally normal for so long, suddenly spiked. I look around gingerly. Everything seems ordinary again. "I'm fine. Here's the file."

"Jim, you should take it easy," Megan says, sounding worried. "You look tired."

"I'm okay." But I am tired. It comes from not sleeping. Since Blair left, I've probably averaged four hours a night. "I'm all right," I repeat, looking at her sternly until she backs off, taking the file with her.

I had a sensory spike. I looked at Blair's handwriting and my senses spiked off the scale. I close my eyes and take a few calming breaths, but it doesn't work. I can't calm down. I had a sensory spike... what's it mean? Was it just the surprise of seeing his handwriting or does it mean my senses might eventually come back online? I don't know what to think and...there's nobody to ask about this. I can't call him to ask his opinion as my guide.

The familiar depression settles in the pit of my stomach once again, and my head's still zinging from the spike. I glance at my watch. It's almost 4:30. I've gotta get out of here, go home.

I shut off my computer and put the papers on my desk away, stand and grab my jacket. The elevator is empty when I get in it, but that just makes me miss Blair all the more.

"Mr. Sandburg?" a soft voice calls from my office doorway.

"Sure. Come on in." I put down my pen and look up. In comes a girl in a wheelchair. I recognize her from my junior Anthro 101 class. "Hi. Sherry, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mr. Sandburg." She stops beside my desk and offers a shy smile.

"How can I help you today, Sherry?" As I recall, her last test grade was an A.

"I...I'm doing fine in your class, Mr. Sandburg. I just wanted to tell you something," she says, her eyes downcast. "If that's okay."

"Uh... yeah." I'm not sure what she's driving at and a little part of me wants to back away from this. I worry she's going to say she likes me or something.

She looks up finally, an earnest look in her dark brown eyes. "I just want to tell you I really admire you." She blushes and looks away again.

"You admire me?" I don't get it.

"Sure," she says, spreading her hands as though it should be obvious. "You've kind of... been an inspiration to me."

"How?" Now I'm really confused.

Her glance goes to my chair. "Just... you... you've shown me...that my life isn't over." She pauses, looking as confused as I am.

I have to swallow a lump in my throat. I look at her, really look, for the first time. Because she's in a chair, I've sort of avoided staring at her. I can't really face the fact that I have to use one myself, so I've tried to avoid other people in one too. I know it's weird, but... Now I see that she's had one leg amputated below the knee. Beneath her skirt, there's one slender leg with a delicate shoe and next to it, a residual limb wrapped with a pressure bandage. She must have just had the operation.

"When...?" I start to ask.

"Just six weeks before classes started," she answers, understanding my half voiced question. "I thought...I thought I wouldn't be able to make it. But when I first saw you teaching, everything changed. I realized I could do anything I want to...just like you."

I feel a hot blush rise on my face. It's humiliating to realize she's looked up to me, when there's nothing in me that anyone should admire. I'm no poster boy for accepting a handicap. I'm not adjusted. I haven't accepted. I'm barely hanging on here. How can she possibly admire me?

"When did...when did you lose your legs?" she asks me and for the first time, I hear that question without a deep bitterness rising inside me.

"Almost a year ago," I say. I'm unable to add anything more.

"Wow," Sherry says in awe. "Is that all?"

"Yeah." I shrug, then take a deep breath. "Sherry, I'm not as good at dealing with this as you might think..."

"I'm sure you have your bad days, just like I do," she says quickly. "But I thought I'd have to...you know...always stay home. I want to teach and... here you are, doing just that. I'll bet you could go out on anthropological digs even, too, if you want to."

"I don't know about that. It'd be pretty difficult to do that in a wheelchair."

"Don't you have prostethtics?" she asks in surprise.

"Uh...well, actually I do but they aren't here in Baltimore. I came here by plane and couldn't bring them with me. I don't really use them all that much anyway. It's pretty hard..."

"I know. I'm having trouble with mine too. I just got started trying it out and it's a pain. I fall down a lot still. But I'll get the hang of it." She gives me a shy smile.

"What happened to you?" I ask, hesitant to pry but unable to stop myself.

"I had bone cancer." She shrugs. "It was lose my leg or lose my life."

The back of my throat burns and my eyes sting. I have to look away from her open expression before I lose it.

"What about you?"

Her soft voice invades my personal agony. I feel like the lowest thing on earth. Here I am, alive at least, and I'm still angry that I'm not dead, still thinking it'd be better to be dead than live like this. And here's this young girl, who says I've inspired her. Shit...

I swallow hard, having to clear my throat to talk. "Funny," I say at last, "it was sorta like that for me."

"Really? Then you know what it's like. Wow, when the doctors told me they had to take my leg off and asked me to decide..." Her voice trails off.

"Well, it wasn't exactly like that," I add, feeling that at least I owe her the truth. "I didn't get to make the decision." I take a deep breath. Even Bill doesn't know exactly how I lost my legs. Nobody in Baltimore does. "I was in an accident." Hoping for a question -- or better yet some indication that's the only information she needs -- I pause. But Sherry doesn't speak. She's waiting for me to go on. "It was really bad," I say as though in a dream. The images try to come back to me, even now. "There was a storm and the bridge went out. I got trapped under the truck and the water was coming up..." There's nothing more that I can say with my throat suddenly full of acid soaked cotton. I stare hard at her, fighting the images of Jim there with me as the water rushed over my head.

"Oh God," Sherry sighs. She rolls her chair a little closer to me. "That must have been terrible."

I nod. "My friend was with me. He got me out the best way he could."

Sherry has nothing to say to that. I glance up at her and her face looks white with shock.

"I mean, my legs were kinda smashed up anyway. That's what they told me at least."

"So your friend had to... cut them off?" Sherry's lips are trembling as she speaks.

"I thought I was going to die. I didn't think there was a way out for me." I close my eyes and hang my head in silence for a moment. "I was...kind of upset when I realized what he'd done."

Sherry gasps, looking at me in shock.

"I was ready to die. I thought it was my time." Saying it like that, I realize how awful it sounds. "But...I'm not mad at him any more. It's just... been hard to deal with all this for me. The way it happened... "

"I read about traumatic amputations," Sherry says. "It's harder to get over it when you lose a limb like that."

I've read that too. It's a crutch I've hung onto when it seemed people expected me to be dealing better with what happened. And yet Sherry's sympathy makes me feel bad. I should be better by now. I told Jim I don't blame him, didn't I?

"Sherry, I really spent a long time feeling sorry for myself. I don't know that I'm dealing with this that well even now. All I did for a long time was hang around the house."

"But you're here now, teaching and everything," she points out.

"Yeah. I don't even know where the motivation to do this came from. I used to live up in Cascade, Washington. I got tired of sitting home, of being depressed and being... kinda mad at everybody and everything... so I started looking for a teaching job. This is what turned up so I took it. Moved out here right after New Year's, before classes started."

Sherry is quiet for a moment. "What about your friend?"

That question is even more complicated than the ones she's already asked me.

"He feels bad about it," I tell her, knowing what an understatement that is. "He took care of me after the accident. It was sort of hard on our friendship."

Sherry nods understandingly. "He lives in Cascade?"

"Yeah. So I haven't seen him since I moved here."

"You were close friends?" she asks.

"Yeah. He was my best friend."

"Wow... " She's quiet a moment. "I still admire you, Mr. Sandburg," she says then. With a tilt of her head and a searching look, she goes on, "I think you must be doing better than you think you are."

I take that in, not really sure about what she's saying. "Thanks, Sherry. It was good talking to you. Any time you'd like to talk like this, it'd be okay with me."

"Great," she smiles. "You're a great teacher, Mr. Sandburg. I love your class." She starts to turn her wheelchair around. "I'd better go. My dad picks me up at five o'clock."

"Is it five already?" I glance at my watch. "My assistant will be here soon."

"That guy Bill?" Sherry asks. "I've seen him around campus." She pushes herself back closer to me. "He's kind of strange, don't you think?" she asks in a softer voice.

"Well..."

"He gives me the creeps." Sherry glances toward the door as though to make sure Bill hasn't arrived to hear what she's saying. "I heard he had a girlfriend who was an amputee -- and that's the reason he was dating her." She makes a face. "You've heard about people like that, haven't you?"

I shake my head no. "Not really... "

"Some people are actually attracted to... people like us. I think that's gross." She shudders a little, then turns to go. "You take care, okay?"

"I will," I assure her. She's given me a lot to think about.

After she's gone, I think about Jim. How he's doing, what he's feeling. I really should call him. I'm the one who was hurt, I'm the one who was depressed all this time, but I haven't been fair to Jim. I left him to keep from hurting him more than I already had by hanging around depressed like I was, but I know leaving hurt him too. He hurt me, but he did it to save my life. He can't reach out and make things okay between us again. I'm the only one who can do that.

The connection Jim and I had was stronger than anything I've ever felt with anyone else before in my life. And I know it was that way for Jim too. Part of it was because we were Sentinel and guide, but it was more than that. I'm afraid that the accident cut that connection, beyond any hope of healing. But god, what if it could heal? What if it still was there between us?

I glance at the clock. Why wait 'til I get home?

I reach for the phone on my desk, dial the number for the station. It's three hours earlier in Cascade. Jim might be there, but he might not be. If he's not, at least I'll hear a familiar voice.

"Major Crimes." It's Rhonda.

I almost say hi to her but instead, I ask for Jim. "Is Jim Ellison there?"

"Just a moment." She puts me on hold. "No, he's out of the office right now. Would you like to leave a message?"

"Uh...sure."

"Is this Blair?" Rhonda finally recognizes my voice.

"Yeah, it's me. How are you, Rhonda?"

"I'm fine. Blair, how are you?" She sounds surprised and as though she's been wondering.

"I'm okay," I begin but I hear another voice in the background. It's Simon.

"Sandburg? Is that you?" Simon must have taken the phone from Rhonda's hand. This is more than I bargained for.

"Hi, Simon. I was just trying to get in touch with Jim."

"About time," Simon says gruffly. "What are you doing, kid? You move out of town without telling a soul, you don't call him..."

"Is he all right?" I need to know, desperately, I realize.

"I guess so. He does his job. He doesn't talk much. He's taken some sick days though."

"He's been sick?"

"I don't know. He doesn't give me the details. Something about headaches." Simon sounds mad at me. I guess I can't blame him.

"Is he working today?" I ask, attempting to reign my worry.

"He's in court. Testifying on a case." Simon's voice is still gruff, aggravated.

"Would you tell him I called?" I'm not sure Simon's on my side enough to cut me any slack but I'm betting he'll tell Jim.

"Of course I will." Simon pauses. "Are you okay, kid?"

"Yeah," I answer in surprise. "I'm doing okay. I got a great job teaching some anthropology classes. I'm getting around pretty good. I feel... better."

"That's good," Simon offers after a moment. "You take care, you hear?"

"I will," I agree for the second time today. "Tell Jim I called him."

"You should try him at home later."

"I will. And... say hi to everybody from me, okay?"

"All right, Sandburg. Keep in touch. I've gotta go."

"Nice to talk to you, Simon," I say as he's hanging up. I switch off my phone just as Bill saunters through the door.

"Sorry I'm late," he says immediately. "Were you trying to call me?"

I put the phone back in my backpack. "No. I was calling a friend."

"Back home?"

I shrug, not all that interested in confiding in him.

"Male or female?" Bill asks with a little wiggle of his eyebrows.

I half smile at him. "Male. My old roommate."

"Oh yeah? I didn't know you had a roommate."

"I did." Despite myself, I sigh, thinking of Jim. I wish he'd been there when I called. What's going on with those headaches Simon mentioned?

"Were you close?" Bill asks.

"He was my friend. My partner. We were... cops."

Bill's eyes widen. He looks impressed. "Cops? You were a cop? Blair -- I mean, I never figured that."

"It's a long story." I hold up a hand, attempting to forestall more questions. "I started out as an observer on the force, working on my dissertation. I ended up going through the Academy and working as a cop for awhile." I break off before I say too much.

But Bill is fairly astute. "Wait a minute -- you had your accident while you were a cop? Oh man, I get it. You had to quit and go back to teaching, right?"

I shrug. What's the point of denying it? At least Bill doesn't seem to recall anything about my dissertation and all the publicity.

He hunkers down next to me. "I bet you made a great cop," he says softly, his eyes full of interest.

"I don't really like to talk about it."

"I can understand that." He pauses. "Did you get shot?"

I shake my head. "Bill, I said I don't like to talk about it."

"Okay," he sighs. His hand goes to my shoulder, squeezing. "You know, you're still a cool guy, Blair. This," he pats the chair, "doesn't matter to me. It shouldn't to anybody." He pauses. "In fact, I think you're probably stronger because of it."

I look at him, part of me annoyed that he's said this. It's such a clich and most people don't mean it. I think he does, but somehow, instead of a comfort, it hurts to hear words like that. I'm not this chair, this body without legs. Is that what Bill sees? What everyone sees? That was my fear, all along, why I hated to leave the loft after I got out of the hospital. I know how people in most societies react to a disability. I don't want to be viewed as something they should pity, or to be thought of as special because of it either.

I feel a flush heat up my face. I'm probably blushing and I hate that. I think of my plan to call Jim -- and remember the bridge falling, the weight of the truck on my legs. I think of how I'd rather be dead than seen as an object of pity or ridicule or worse, an object of admiration. Jim, why did you do this to me?

"I've gotta get home," I say finally, my voice a croak. I can't look at Bill. I just want to be alone. "Did you get those tests copied?"

"Right here," he says, his own voice understandably quieter than usual.

"Just put them on the desk."

"Okay. You need anything from the store?" That anxious to please tone is back.

"No, I'm fine. I'll see you tomorrow." Feeling like a jerk, I turn back to look at him. None of this was his fault. "I'm okay. Thanks." He smiles and nods. I turn my chair and head for the door. Bill holds it for me and waits 'til I lock up, looking as though he hopes I'll ask him to accompany me after all. "I'm fine, Bill," I say as we emerge on the street.

"Take care then. I'll stop by tomorrow in case you need anything before class," he says and, with a wave, he heads down the street.

'Take care.' Yeah, right. Is that all anybody can say to me? What makes them think I won't, I can't?

I look around anxiously to see if anybody else is around. I don't want people to look at me, don't want them wondering what happened to me, feeling sorry for me. I don't want them trying to make friends with me 'cause I'm in a wheelchair, either.

Not many students are around this late in the afternoon. Relieved, I head off campus, keeping my eyes down as I make my way along the uneven sidewalk. I was going to call Jim later tonight. Now, I'm not sure. Part of me just wants to be alone in my little apartment, keep to myself. I don't know if I can talk to him feeling this way right now. We were hurting each other when I was still in Cascade. I'm not saying he's not hurting 'cause I left, but I'm still hurting too.

Simon Banks felt relieved when he pulled up in front of 852 Prospect Street. Jim's truck was parked in its usual spot, so he figured his detective was at home. He'd heard that Jim had had some kind of problem testifying in court. Jim hadn't returned to the station following the court appearance but had taken the rest of the day off sick again. Simon was worried; Ellison hadn't been himself since Blair had left town but he hadn't been able to make much headway talking to him about it at the station. He thought if he tried seeing Jim at home, he might have more luck. Besides, he thought Jim would want to know that Blair had called the station to talk to him.

He took the elevator and strode down the hall to 307, knocking brusquely, remembering that Jim's senses weren't sentinel strong any more. Simon felt a pang of regret; in the old days, Jim would have often opened the door before Simon even had a chance to knock.

There was no answer, but Simon knew Jim was home. He knocked a second time, waited, and then tried the door. It was unlocked, so he pushed it open.

The sight of the loft's interior sent a shock wave through him.

Instead of the pristine apartment he expected to see, Simon found a disaster area. There was trash overflowing the garbage can inside the kitchen area, newspapers were draped on the couches and piled on the floor. Plates and cups decorated the coffee table, clothes -- clean or not -- lay strewn about. The dining table was a mess, piled high with papers, books, beer bottles, take out trays and used napkins, and one of its chairs was overturned. What furniture wasn't covered with refuse was grey with dust. The place even smelled bad.

It took a moment for Simon to find Jim amongst the debris. He was curled up on the longer couch, a pillow from his bed under his head and the afghan covering him. The hiking boots he'd been wearing were on the floor beside him.

No lights had been turned on, so Simon's first order of business was to do that. He tried the fixture over the kitchen island but it seemed to be burned out. Next, he looked for a lamp in the living room. One of them lay broken on the floor. Simon settled for opening the blinds to let in what light remained outside. As he crossed to the windows, he noticed that the TV set was on. It wasn't tuned to a station, however; instead a test pattern glowed on the screen while the set emitted a low static hum.

"Jim, are you awake?" he called out, more worried when he received no answer. Simon moved to the couch and leaned over, touching Jim's shoulder. "Jim?"

Ellison bolted upright, his eyes wild, his hand going automatically to the gun he'd put under his pillow. Simon found himself staring down its barrel.

"Whoa there, Detective," he said, holding up both hands. "It's me, Jim. Simon. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh." Jim slowly lowered the weapon and put it on the coffee table. "I'm sorry, Simon. I didn't hear you come in."

"I realize that." Simon hesitated a moment.

"What are you doing here?" Jim looked as confused as Simon felt. He rubbed at his face, trying to wake up. His hair, which Simon realized hadn't been trimmed recently was mussed from lying down. He'd so seldom seen Jim looking unkempt it gave Simon a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"I heard you had some kind of problem in court and that you went home sick again," Simon said, trying not to sound annoyed. Jim still looked at little shell-shocked from being wakened up. "Jim -- what's going on here?"

Ellison glanced around the room as though he didn't quite recognize it. "Nothing." He shrugged. "Sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting anyone." Jim sat up and pulled some newspapers off the other end of the couch, clearing a spot for Simon to sit.

"I can see that." He took a seat, still floundering for what to say, where to begin. "Jim, this isn't like you," he started.

Jim's face was impassive. "I guess I got tired of being so anal about the place," he offered finally.

"It doesn't look like you've cleaned it since... since Sandburg left," Simon pointed out.

Jim seemed to wince at the mention of Blair's name. "Didn't seem to be any point," he muttered.

"Okay, that's your business," Simon said, feeling awkward. "Tell me about what happened in court."

"I started to testify and...the defense attorney started asking about whether or not I had special senses that gave me information on the crime." A sad look crossed his face that made Simon's heart twist. "I...denied that, of course. Anyway, it didn't go so well after that. Before I got off the stand, my head felt like it was going to fall off." He rubbed at his temples, his brows drawing together in pain.

"You've been getting a lot of headaches, Jim," Simon began gently. "Have you seen a doctor about this?"

Jim shook his head.

"What's causing the headaches?"

"How should I know?" Jim snapped. "They're just migraines. I've gotten them for years. It's the job, Simon, you know about that... "

"Yeah, I know about that but I also know that Sandburg's leaving has thrown you for a loop -- "

"You didn't come here to talk about Blair, did you?" Jim interrupted. "Because that's not a topic that's open for discussion."

"He called the office today."

Jim looked up, his eyes wide and torn with hope and dread. "Is something wrong? Did you talk to him? Why did he call? Simon -- ?"

"Settle down," Simon cautioned. "He's all right, apparently. I talked to him. He sounded fine. He called looking for you."

Jim didn't say a word. He just sat there, his mouth half open. Simon saw the muscle in his jaw twitch, always an indicator of Ellison's emotions.

"I told him you were in court and to call here later." He didn't bother asking if Sandburg had called Jim yet. It was obvious he hadn't.

Jim looked at his watch, then glanced around as though searching for the phone. He got up and paced to where the answering machine sat, looking closely to see if there were any messages. He looked up at Simon. "I was sleeping pretty sound. I thought I might have missed his call." The look of disappointment on his face was almost more than Simon could stand.

"I'm sure he'll call later tonight," Simon tried to reassure. "Jim, have you eaten anything today?"

Ellison shook his head, wandering away from the answering machine to cross the living area and stare out at the bay through the window. Simon saw a broken coffee mug lying on the floor of the balcony. He got up, moving to stand next to his friend.

"Have you had dinner, Jim?" he asked again, more gently this time.

Jim shook his head, eyes still on the horizon.

"I haven't either," Simon told him, attempting to sound jovial. "Come on, let's go out for a quick bite." He put a hand on Jim's arm. The muscle turned to iron under his fingers. Ellison felt like a bronze statue.

"No." His voice was almost a sigh. "Blair might call."

"Then we'll call out and have something delivered." He paused, getting no reaction. "My treat."

Jim finally turned to look at him. His eyes were red, Simon noticed. "No, thanks, Simon. I can't eat when my head feels like this. I can't keep anything down."

"Jim, I'm worried about you," Simon told him, letting his concern show. "These headaches are starting to affect your work." Looking at him more closely, he could see that Jim had lost weight recently. "If you're not eating right, if you're in pain, you can't do your job." He hesitated, then went on. "Could this have anything to do with your senses?"

Jim's head came up and he drilled Simon with a deadly glare, blue eyes going from dull and pain-filled to angry in a second. "What senses? There's nothing about my senses that are any different from anyone else's, Captain. You know that."

"Jim, Megan told me you seemed to have some kind of sensory episode the other day when she asked for a file from you."

"What?"

"She asked for a file on a case and you pulled it out of the drawer. You opened it and when you looked at the page, you reacted -- you winced, she said. You seemed to flinch away from the page. Then you complained of a headache and left for the day."

"Simon, I had a headache. When I get them, it's hard to focus my eyes. I didn't have any 'sensory episode.' That's... that's crazy. I don't get sensory episodes any more. You know that."

Simon persisted. "Jim, are you sure? I don't want my best detective having sensory problems out there, getting migraines every day, losing it on the witness stand. If you need help with your senses -- "

"I don't." The tone was firm, final. His gaze wavered after a moment, and he looked away. "I can't."

"Jim, I know what Blair's accident did to you." Simon moved closer, stepping back into Ellison's line of sight. "But you can't keep punishing yourself forever over it. He's left to get on with his life. You need to do the same thing."

"Simon, you have no idea what Blair's 'accident' did to me. I didn't shut down my senses on purpose or anything like that. They're just gone... I've had to accept that. I hate that they're gone. If I still had them, at least Blair would have felt like he had a reason to keep going. But I didn't. I took not only his legs from him, but his vocation too. And I'm not talking about his being a cop. I'm talking about him being my guide. That was the most important thing in the world to him. He could have guided me with or without legs -- but I don't need a guide any more." Jim strode away, his chest heaving. Suddenly, he turned back to Simon, his eyes haunted, his voice sharp. "Did you know he wanted me to let him die out there? He actually told me to leave him under the truck that way. He'd've drowned and he knew it, Simon. He wanted to die -- he expected to die and I couldn't let him go like that. I did what I had to do to save him." Jim hung his head, his tirade dying down. "And he's resented me every day since then. Even if I got my senses back, I don't think he'd care any more."

Simon digested the information without comment, knowing the idea that the kid had said he'd prefer to die in the accident than survive it without his legs was going to stay with him for the rest of the night, maybe for the rest of his life. God, what that must have done to Jim... It was bad enough he'd had to cut off his best friend's legs... but to be told he should have left him to die... Damn.

"Jim," he said, choosing to respond only to the last part of Ellison's statement. "I know Blair cares about you. I think he always will. He called today to talk to you."

Jim looked up at him, a look of greater trepidation on his face than Simon had ever seen. "I let him down," he whispered.

Simon took hold of both Jim's shoulders. "No, you didn't. You saved his life. He knows that. He might have been upset about how you saved him when it first happened, but he's got to think differently by now."

Jim ignored him. "He's been so depressed... "

"And if he was depressed enough, if he wanted to die badly enough, he would have found a way to die, wouldn't he?"

Jim stared at him then, but Simon couldn't fathom the look on his face.

"He'll call you," he said firmly. "He's got a job and he's doing all right. He doesn't wish he was dead."

Ellison glanced away. "He did say he doesn't hate me... " His voice was faintly hopeful.

"What?"

"When he called, after he left town. That's what he told me. I thought he was just saying that though. He's hasn't called again. He doesn't want to come home."

"Jim, these things take time. You've both been through a lot."

Ellison managed a nod but his expression still looked defeated.

"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?" Simon asked after a moment.

"No. I'm just going to get some sleep." Jim moved back to the couch and settled on it once more.

Simon noted the pillow there. "Is this where you've been sleeping?"

Jim shrugged. "I guess. I can't really sleep in my bed until it's about three, four a.m."

"Are you going to be okay to come in tomorrow?"

"Sure," Jim affirmed. "I'll be there."

"Okay. Good." Simon hesitated, then said what he knew he had to say. "Jim, I'm giving you some time to deal with all this, but I want you to know this: if you keep having these bad migraines, if you keep not eating, I'm going to have to see to it that you get some medical help. Or psychological help. Whatever it takes."

Jim nodded. "I understand, Simon." He pulled his legs up onto the couch, sliding down to rest his head on the pillow, then lay there with his knees drawn up, his face blank.

"Get some rest," Simon told him gruffly. He turned to leave. "You want this door locked? It was open when I came in."

Jim looked up. "Oh. Sure. Lock it for me, would you?"

"Night, Jim. Take it easy." Simon left, more worried than he had been when he arrived.

The next morning, Jim walked into the bullpen, looking much like his usual self. He was dressed in clean if somewhat rumpled clothes, his hair was combed, he was clean shaven and there was only a trace of the tight line between his brows from yesterday's so-called migraine. Yet Simon noted the effects of eating less than usual and it appeared Ellison wasn't working out as much any more either. He opened his door and called out a greeting.

"Want some coffee, Jim? I just brewed a fresh pot."

"Sure, Simon." Jim moved as though he was keeping himself under tight control.

Simon poured him a cup of coffee and sat, watching as Ellison took a few sips. "How are you feeling today?" he asked finally.

"I'm fine. Headache's better." Jim attempted to smile but it was obviously forced.

"Did Sandburg call?" Simon almost hated to ask.

Jim's face lost what expression it had had. "No." He looked down into the cup of coffee he held.

"I'm sorry, Jim," Simon told him. "Maybe something came up. He'll get in touch with you."

"If there's nothing else, sir," Jim said abruptly, "I have some reports to finish."

"Sure. Go right ahead. I always like to think my men are keeping up with their paperwork." Simon watched as Ellison went to his desk and switched on his computer, then the Captain picked up his phone and punched in Rhonda's number.

"Yes, Captain?" she responded when she learned it was Simon.

"Rhonda, I need you to find out the number that call came from yesterday," Simon told her. "The one from Sandburg."

"Yes, sir. I'll get right on it."

An hour later, Rhonda walked into Simon's office and handed him a slip of paper with the number in Baltimore, Maryland from where Blair Sandburg had called Major Crimes yesterday. Knowing that Jim was out of the office, Simon lost no time dialing the number. The phone rang once and was picked up.

"Blair Sandburg."

"My, don't we sound official," Simon observed.

"Simon?" Blair sounded surprised but not unhappy to hear his voice. "This is my office phone, that's why I answered like that."

"I see."

"So...uh... what can I do for you?" A trace of strain was in Sandburg's voice now; he was obviously becoming uncomfortable.

"You didn't call Jim last night, did you?"

"Uh...no. I guess I didn't."

"Why not?"

"Simon? Why the third degree? I don't work for you anymore -- "

"Cut the crap, Sandburg. I told Jim you called because you asked me to. He was looking forward to hearing from you. Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Uh...I guess not." There was a pause. "Look, Simon, something came up and I didn't get a chance.... No, that's not true. I... couldn't. I thought I could but I just... couldn't talk to him last night."

"Well, at least you're being honest about it," Simon grumbled. "Look, I don't know everything about what's been going on with the two of you since you got hurt, but something has got to change and right now. I went to the loft last night to give Jim your message."

"You did?"

"Yes. He had a problem in court yesterday when he was testifying. He didn't come back to the office. I told you he'd called in sick because of headaches recently -- he had one again yesterday. I wanted to see him for myself and it's a good thing I did."

"Why?"

"Blair -- you wouldn't recognize the loft."

"What?"

"Are you able to talk in words of more than one syllable?" Simon snapped. "The loft is a pigsty. I doubt he's cleaned up a thing or thrown a bag of trash out since you left. Lights are burned out or broken, the furniture's a mess. He barely eats, when he does it's take out and he's lost weight. He's having migraines that prevent him from keeping food down. He sleeps on the couch -- says he can't sleep in his bed until it's the middle of the night. There probably isn't a clean dish in the whole place -- "

"Okay, Simon. I get it." Blair paused and Simon imagined the look of concentration on his face as Sandburg's mind went into gear. "Did he say anything about his senses?"

"Yes. He said they're gone completely. Megan thought he had some kind of sensory thing in the bull pen the other day, but he denied it." Simon took a breath. "You know how guilty he feels about what happened, Blair. From everything you guys ever told me about Jim's senses, they shut down when he's emotionally upset."

"And what am I supposed to do?" Blair asked, sounding annoyed. "Tell him I'm fine, that everything is okay with me? That I like not having legs just fine so he can get back his sentinel powers? Yeah, like that's going to work."

"You know that's not what I meant," Simon said tiredly.

Blair sighed deeply. "I know it isn't."

"Blair, how are you?"

Another sigh. "I'm all right. I do feel better than I did before I left. It's good to be working again, teaching. But how can I tell Jim that? He already feels bad enough. If he thinks I'm happy here, he's gonna feel even worse."

Simon didn't have an immediate answer.

"Besides, I don't know what to say to him. Yesterday, I was all set to talk to him. Then, I don't know... I started feeling like I was nothing but... this chair I sit in. And all I could think of was the reason I'm in it is because of Jim."

"Sandburg, do you hear what you're saying? You'd think Jim deliberately injured you. He did what he did because your life was in danger. He did what he always does -- he saved your life for you. It wasn't the first time, and it just so happened he couldn't save everything. But instead of being grateful to him, you sound like a selfish little prick who wants to punish his best friend 'cause he couldn't let you die under that truck."

There was silence at the other end of the line.

"I don't hate him," Blair said finally. "I told him that."

"Yeah, I know. He told me. You should see how it's cheered him up."

"Simon -- all right. I'll call him. And I don't mean to come off as a selfish prick. My whole life's changed, y'know? I guess I should be used to that, but this was a little harder to deal with, okay?"

"I know, Blair. I've been worried about you, too. Look, Jim needs you and you need him. The sentinel thing might be over, but you guys are still friends. You're both hurting and the only way to get past it is to work it out together. You hear me?"

"Yeah, I do. And don't think I haven't thought about that before this." He paused again and Simon heard him groan slightly.

"What is it? Are you okay? You still have that pain?"

"Yeah, I do. I'm kinda used to it. It just gets bad every now and then."

"Isn't there some medication you're supposed to take?"

"There is. It just doesn't work all that well. Oh, man... Look, Simon, I just glanced at the clock. I've got a class to teach. I've gotta go. Uh... thanks for calling. I mean... "

"I know, Blair. And listen to what I said. Call Jim. Give him your number so he can call you."

"I will. I'll call him tonight for sure."

"Good. You'll hear from me if you don't."

"Okay." Sandburg was chuckling slightly as he hung up.

Simon didn't tell Jim that he'd called Sandburg, but he knew he'd find out if the kid followed orders and called Jim tonight.

Simon was right. The loft is a mess. I just can't seem to care enough to do anything about it.

I walk over to the couch and shove aside some stuff on the coffee table so I can put down my bag from the sub shop. My head feels better today. Maybe this sandwich will go down and stay down.

Can't believe Simon showed up here. That was unexpected. I didn't know what to say to him -- so what did I do? I end up spilling my guts to him. I didn't want to say those things about Blair blaming me... how could I share his secret feelings with Simon that way? What's the Captain going to think of him?

At the moment, I'm not even sure what I think of him. Maybe I should be pissed. After all, everything I did, I did for him.

No, you didn't. You did it for you...

Yeah, maybe that's what he'd say. And maybe he'd be right about that. Maybe I was being selfish, saving him at any cost. Yeah, I wanted my friend to live. I wanted my guide to live. But I also wanted Blair to live for Blair. He was too young to die like that, with his whole life ahead of him. He'd come so far, starting a new life as a cop -- as my partner -- No, I'm supposed to be thinking about why I saved him for him, not for me.

But I did save him for me. I saved him because I love him. I couldn't tell him before he was hurt. I couldn't tell him after he was hurt. I only told him there on the mountain. It wasn't enough but it was the truth and it still is the truth. I love him, even though he's been acting like he blames me for being maimed, for ruining his life. I love him even though he didn't try to pull himself out of his depression after the accident. I love him even though he barely spoke to me these last months.

I love him even though he's left me.

Oh, God, Blair. I never thought there'd be this wall between us. What happened? We survived so much. We survived Alex Barnes. We survived the diss becoming public. We survived a hundred attempts on our lives... I thought the connection between us would never be broken.

Is there any connection between us now, still? I'm not a sentinel any more, so I can't feel it. Could I, would I feel it, if it was there, without my senses? I think I would. I'd feel the connection, the bond between us, no matter what, if it was still there.

What do you feel, Blair? Do you feel it at all? God, please call me like Simon said you were going to...I need to know, Blair. I need you...

All those things we survived... but this was the ultimate, wasn't it? You said you don't blame me, but maybe that really is it. You do. Somehow, you didn't blame me for Alex Barnes killing you, you didn't blame me for being so mad at you over the dissertation or for having to give up your career...did all those hurts just come to a head finally and me...doing what I did to save you was the last straw?

Blair... I'm so sorry...I'm such a damn fool...

Agggghhhhhh!

What's that? God, that pain... my head... It's like a knife twisting in my brain...!

What is it? Feels like everything is off the scale... No, wait, it's just sound. I'm hearing something... Why'd I spike like that? Unhhh... it's still there...!

Calm down... settle down and figure out what it is. Breathe. Remember to breathe.

There. I can hear it now, past the pain. It's the phone. The phone is ringing.

Just the phone.

Why'd it send my senses off the scale like that?

Answer it. Gotta answer it. It might be...

I'm crawling toward it. My legs won't support me, my hands are shaking. I hope I can pick it up without dropping it... Got it --

"H-h'lo...?" Breathless... head spinning...

"Jim? I didn't think you were going to answer."

"Nnhhh... Unnbhhh... no. I'm here." I close my eyes a minute, hoping my head will stop spinning. "Blair?" God, I sound plaintive... damn...

"Jim, what's wrong?"

Oh my God. That tone in his voice. I haven't heard it...

"Jim?"

Oh, man... I felt that. Like a tug on my consciousness. A lifeline... between him and me. It's there... Oh, God, it is there... Can he feel it? Does he know it...?

"B-blair..." Stupid... damn... all I can do is breathe his name.

"Jim -- tell me what's wrong." Urgent now, his voice demands I do what he tells me.

I can do that. "I'm okay," I say, trying to make it true. "The phone just... startled me."

"Come on, man. You weren't startled. Simon was telling me about your headaches. Is that it?" Admonishing me, his voice switches to gentleness at the end.

I wasn't aware of a headache... I try to get a grip. Blair asked me what was wrong...I need to answer him...

"I'm not sure." But I am. Well, half sure anyway.

"Jim, it's okay. Just relax and breathe. Okay? Easy... that's it... "

Oh God... his voice like that... soft and sweet and so loving... guiding me past the pain... I feel tears spring to my eyes, and not from the pain in my head...

"Better?" he asks after a moment. I guess he can tell my breathing's evening out.

"Yeah," I manage. It's easier to talk now. "I think... I think it was some kind of sensory spike. The phone rang and... it was like a siren... you know, turned way up and an inch away from my ear." I rub my temple, fighting the ache that's still there, resonating in my head from the loudness.

"God, Jim... A sensory spike. You know what that means?" He sounds breathless now.

"I don't think it means anything, Blair."

He ignores my pessimism. "What were you doing when the phone rang?"

"Just, sitting here. I got something for dinner. I was just starting to eat it when the phone rang."

A pause. "That's all? Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

Another pause. I imagine the look on his face. He's trying to puzzle it out. Always the scientist... always the guide...

"What were you thinking about?"

That one catches me off guard. "Thinking...?"

"Yeah, Jim. Thinking. What were you thinking about right before the phone rang?"

I gulp down a lump of fear. What do I say? Tell him I was thinking about him?

Why the hell not? Tell him. For once in your goddamn life, Ellison, say what you know you should say...

"I was thinking of you." It comes out like a confession, like it's something I should have tried to hide or been ashamed of. I swallow again. "Thinking about you," I repeat, stronger this time. I clear my throat, still trying to find some refuge to hide behind. "Simon said you called the other day and..."

"Have you had any other spikes?" Blair pushes past my defensive statement.

I close my eyes. He knows me too well. "Yeah. One. The other day at the station."

"What happened that time?"

"Megan asked me to hand her a file. I opened it and... " Why is this so hard to explain to him? "It was one of our cases. You'd written some notes and... When I saw your handwriting... "

"That caused the spike." It's not a question.

I answer anyway, for both of us. "Yes." A pause, while I gather my courage. "Blair. I miss you." It hurts to say it. Not because I don't want to admit it, because it's so true.

For a moment, he's silent. But it isn't an empty silence. I still feel the connection between us. "I miss you too." He just whispers it but it feels so good to hear the words. There's warmth coming through our connection now. It feels so good I want to bask in it.

"I'm sor-- "

"Jim, I'm sorry."

"Blair -- " Just catching his words that came in the same breath as mine, I stumble. "What do you have to be sorry about? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I hurt you." I gasp for breath. "I...I didn't take good enough care of you. Not in the accident and not even after it..." My throat's so tight I have to fight to speak, to breathe. I want to apologize for not following his wishes but to have done that, to have just left him there to die -- the idea is so abhorrent I can't even conceive...

"No," his voice is whisper soft. "It's not that, Jim." He takes a deep breath. "You always took care of me. I'm sorry I let you think I blamed you... " His voice chokes off.

He sounds so lost. Everything in me responds to that, more than to his absolution. "Are you all right?" I have to know. Beyond the hurt I've felt since he left, I've needed to know he's okay. If he's okay, I think I can survive him not being here.

"Yeah. I'm okay."

"Really?"

A sigh. "Yes. I almost don't believe it myself, but I'm basically okay. I like my classes. I like it here. I don't feel... as depressed as I did at home." His voice breaks at the word.

"Are you getting around okay?"

"Yeah." He seems relieved at the change in subject. "I have an assistant. He goes on errands for me and stuff. He's pretty helpful."

A blade of jealousy stabs through my heart at the words. I should be the one helping him. But he chose to leave me behind, to let a stranger assist him. Guess the guy's not that much of a stranger by now, though. Damn. I don't want him to have needs I can't fill. I want to be everything to him. I've always wanted that.

Noticing my silence, he clears his throat. "But I do sorta need my stuff. When... when do you think you could come here with it? You know, like we talked about when I called you the last time?"

He wants me to come... I cradle the phone in both hands, leaning back against the side of the couch here on the floor. "Any time. I can come any time. I'll just let Simon know... " I say in a rush.

"Are you sure you're okay to drive all that way?" he asks abruptly. "I mean, you've been having sensory spikes and headaches... "

"I can make it." I'd walk through fire for him; I can certainly manage a cross country drive to get to him.

"Have you been sleeping okay? Eating enough?" He's all business now and I almost smile.

"Isn't that what I should be asking you?"

"Maybe. But I asked you first." There is almost a glimmer of amusement in his voice.

It makes me feel so good to hear that, I tell him the truth. "Okay, no. I'm not sleeping too well. And the migraines... I can't eat when I have one."

"Jim -- what am I going to do with you?" he asks fondly.

"Let me know when I get there," is my response. God, we're talking, teasing. Almost-flirting like we used to. The realization is so sweet it almost hurts.

He's smiling. I can tell. "Look," he says after a moment, "I want you to rest up before you start out, okay? Take a couple days and just get some sleep. I don't want you driving with a bad headache -- or getting a sensory spike while you're on the highway." The worry returns to his voice. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea... "

"No. I'll be fine." I know what I need. But can I ask for it? "If... if we can talk to each other." God, I feel like a jerk. "You know, if we can talk like this. More often, I mean. While I'm on the way. I think I'll be fine."

There's a long pause while I hold my breath. "I can do that," he says, very gently. "I...I guess I was wrong, not calling you before this."

"I understand." I hate being so needy. But God, I do need him. And I think... I think part of the problem was him not knowing that.

"Can we, like, start over?" he asks. "I mean, do this another way? I'll call you, you call me. We can... you know, talk. As often as you want to."

"I'd like that, Blair." I realize how hard it's been for him. "I know you needed to get some space... "

"I did," he admits. "You've been so patient, Jim. I just... couldn't be the way I used to be." He pauses and his voice sounds choked, wet. "I'm not even sure that I can be now. But... I don't want to keep hurting you either."

"I know," I whisper, wanting to absolve him. "I've hurt you so much too..."

"Shhh... let's stop this, okay?" he asks, almost begging, and I can hear tears in his voice now. "If we both keep apologizing, we'll never get anywhere, " he half-laughs.

"Blair..." I hold the phone tighter.

There's just silence on the phone line now, both of us fighting for breath and composure. It hurts, but not as bad as I hurt before. I think of the pain he's suffered and it all pales in comparison anyway.

"How are you, really?" I have to ask. "Do you still hurt a lot?"

"Uh... yeah. Sometimes. I can get through the day though."

"That's good. Are you taking those pain pills?" I remember counting the number of them in the bottle, knowing he wasn't taking them but unable to get him to.

"Every so often. They don't help that much."

"I want you to take them." I can't stand the thought of him hurting like that. I remember seeing him writhe with it, the pain of his missing limbs, the agony of nerves that have been cut but remember what's missing.

"Jim... " He sounds peeved.

"You told me to eat and sleep," I remind him, desperate to get back some of our banter.

He pauses. I can almost hear the gears turning in his head. "Okay," he sighs. "I guess you've got a point. All right. I will if you will."

"I'll eat, you take your pills?" I check.

"Yeah."

"Are you hurting now?" I need to know.

He waits before he answers. Tell me the truth, Blair. I've been telling you the truth.

"Okay. Yeah. A bit," he finally admits.

"Then take one. Okay? You do have some, right?"

"Yeah. I got the prescription filled last week."

"Then take one. Please?"

"Okay. But you have to eat dinner. And go to bed at a decent time." The teasing note is back in his voice.

"Deal." I'm grinning. My cheeks almost hurt, it's been so long.

He pauses. "Write down my number," he says and I'm scrambling for paper and pen. "This is my cell. I always have it with me," he tells me, giving me the number. "If you get one of those spikes, I want you to call me, okay?"

I bite my lip before I can answer, facing my own vulnerability. "Okay," I promise. "Thanks." His long distance comfort felt so good this time, how can I say no? I need it... I need him... so much...

"When you're feeling better, we'll talk about you coming out here to bring me my things," he says.

"Okay," I agree, though if he asked me to, I'd start packing the car right now. "I do have a couple of cases that I should close before I take the time off." He probably needs more time, I realize.

"That sounds good," Blair says, "but it won't be too long, will it?"

He'll never know how good it makes me feel to hear him say that. "No, not too long," I murmur into the phone.

"I'd better go," he says after a moment. "If you sure you're all right."

"I'm okay," I tell him. "You?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Good... good talking to you, Jim."

"Same here." I want my voice to caress him the way his touches me.

"Call me tomorrow?" he asks.

I feel like he's offered me the moon. "Sure. I will." My heart is pounding, just from the news he wants me to call him. "About this time?"

"This time is good," he affirms, "unless you have another spike. Call me anytime, if that happens."

"Okay." I hesitate. "Blair... " I reach out, trying as an ordinary man to grasp our connection, make sure it's real. I need it so much, maybe more than I did when I was a Sentinel. Is that strange or what?

"I know, Jim," he tells me, though I couldn't for the life of me have put into words what I was feeling. "I know." He sighs and it feels like he's touched me. "Me too."

"Me too." I breathe the words and try to make it a blessing.

The call ends but I don't feel empty like I did before. The connection is still there.

I put my head in my hands and just try to gather my wits for a few long moments, then get up from the floor and go eat my dinner, like I promised Blair I would.

"How're you doing, Blair?"

Shit, what's he doing here? Here I sit, with a picture of Jim and me in my lap... gotta put it somewhere --

"What're you looking at?" Bill sounds friendly, but does he have to be so pushy about it?

"Just a friend." Feeling stupid, I put the picture on the coffee table. I'm not too surprised when Bill picks it up.

"Who's this guy?" he asks, looking up at me after staring a moment at the picture.

"That's Jim," I manage, feeling the name stick in my throat a bit as I say it. For some reason, I feel strange giving Bill even that much information.

"He looks like a body builder or something." Grinning, Bill looks at the photo again.

"He's a cop but he used to be an Army Ranger," I offer, trying to stick to the more impersonal facts.

"He a friend of yours?" Bill sounds surprised. "I mean, you're... the studious type."

"It's a long story," I hedge.

"I'll bet it is." Bill's face has gone sympathetic. "Wait, I get it. This the roommate that you were calling before, isn't it? You guys were friends but when you lost your legs, he dumped you, right?"

I reach out, reclaim the picture, unable to keep my eyes from glancing down at it once more. "No, that's not it at all."

"Look, Blair, I understand these things," Bill's saying, still off the mark. "I know how most people are when somebody loses a limb. They act shitty. Friends don't know what to say or do around you all of a sudden."

Blair had to admit the truth to that part of what Bill said. "Well... "

"And if you have a girlfriend at the time it happens, it can be even worse than the way friends respond." Bill was at his most sympathetic. "Did you have a girlfriend when it happened?"

My eyes still on the photo, I just shake my head. "No, no girlfriend."

There was a moment of silence, then Bill's voice comes in a whisper. "Oh wow... Blair, I never realized... "

"What?" I look up at him in confusion.

"You and Jim... he was your *boy*friend?"

I can't help the blush the words bring to my face, feeling it heat up my cheeks rapidly. Now Bill's really getting the wrong idea. "No," I quickly say, but he's moved closer, his eyes regretful.

"Sorry -- didn't mean to embarrass you, Blair. I just didn't know you were gay or whatever."

"I'm not gay, Bill."

"But..."

"I don't want to talk about Jim and me, okay?" I put the picture away, between the pages of my anthropology text and set the book aside.

Bill's looking down at his hands. "Blair, I could handle it if you were... that way."

"I'm not saying you couldn't, Bill," I tell him. "It's not like that. My relationship with Jim was much more complicated than what you're thinking. I don't feel like explaining it."

"Well, whatever, I'm sure things changed when you lost your legs."

The way Bill said it make it feel like the knife had just cut through my limbs again. He's so... cavalier about it that it sorta gives me the creeps. It's like he likes saying it too much. I realize I didn't answer him yet. I shrug, trying to leave out any details. "You could say that."

"I don't know how people can be that way," Bill complains. "I'd never drop a friend because of this." His hand reaches out toward my left leg, which is closest to him.

I push back on the wheels of my chair, needing to get some space between us.

"Blair, it's part of you," Bill says softly, kindly. "It's not something gross to me."

He means well, I'm sure, but the way he emphasized the word 'gross' -- and the word 'me' -- bothers me.

"Jim doesn't think it's gross either, Bill," I tell him, sounding a little short but unable to keep that tone out of my voice. "He's coming to see me in a week or two, actually, to bring me a lot of stuff I had to leave when I came here on the plane."

"Okay," Bill says, holding up both hands in surrender. "I'm sure he's a great guy."

I lock eyes with him, never meaning anything more in my life. "He is."

I can hardly get the key in the lock. My head is pounding, worse now that I'm home than it was all day. The migraines are a daily occurrence and any thought I'd had that they'd ease up if I heard from Blair went out the window pretty quickly. I've spoken to him every couple of days and even though things aren't all that strained between us, the headaches haven't stopped. If anything, they're worse. The longer he's away from me, the more out of control I feel. My head hurts, I can't concentrate, can't do my job like this. I've had more sensory spikes and it takes longer to get myself together after they happen. The more I think about going to see him, the more they occur. I don't know if I'll be able to make the trip in this condition and I can't tell him how messed up I am or he'll insist I stay home.

He did say I should call him if I feel too bad. Getting the door open at last, I head straight for the phone and sink down on the couch with it in my hands. My fingers shake as I dial his number. God, Blair, even without my senses, it seems I need you near. With you so far away it's like the anchor of my life is lost and talking to you once in a while doesn't do the trick. It only reminds me how far away from me you are.

The phone rings once, twice, three times and I'm about to hang up when I hear a voice say, "Hello." It's not his voice though and the stab of disappointment that goes through me is almost enough to knock the phone out of my hands.

"Hello?" the voice repeats.

"I-is this Blair Sandburg's number?" I stammer, knowing I sound desperate and ridiculous.

"Yes, this is Professor Sandburg's residence. Who's this?"

The cool voice makes my head pound and I bite my lip to keep from groaning into the receiver. "This is Jim Ellison. C-could I speak to Blair?"

"Uh... I think he's busy right now. Maybe you can leave a message."

A message. My mind goes blank. What am I going to say? Tell Professor Sandburg I've got a headache and need to talk to him?

"Just... have him call me, okay?" I manage to get the words out, despite the darkness that seems to be invading the loft at the moment.

"Sure. No problem." The line goes dead.

The phone drops from my numb fingers and lands on the couch or floor, I'm not really sure. I stumble out of the living room, going to the one place I can think of where I can feel close to Blair.

The door to his room has been shut for weeks now. I haven't let myself go in there since he first left. It's too painful to see the things he left behind here. But now, I can't stay out. I stagger through the door and collapse on his bed.

I bury my nose in his pillows, praying to find a trace of his scent. It's almost gone though, a realization that nearly breaks my heart. If I still had my senses, I'm sure I could detect lingering traces of him here. Damnit! I remember how hard I tried to get my sight back when that Golden stuff took it away from me, how when I really needed it, it finally started to come back, enough so I could catch the last of the drug dealers.

I push myself like that now, straining to make my sense of smell dial up. But it's like the dial is broken, spinning uselessly, and the effort makes my headache worse. The pain in my temples is crushing. I clench my eyes shut, hands at my temples, barely breathing. I feel my senses start to spike; it's like a jolt of static electricity arcing through me and I can almost hear it spark and sizzle. I feel like I've taken hold of a live wire, one that sends a charge through my helpless body every few seconds. I try to fight it for awhile, then attempt to relax into it, as one would relax into torture, knowing that to struggle is useless.

The jolts slow, my senses spiking every few minutes now and it's like trying to see in a dark room when there's a flash of lightening. It never lasts long enough for you to get your bearings. It's a tantalizing torment, revealing sensory images to me that I've been denied since Blair was hurt, never there long enough for me to hold onto them. A whiff of his scent comes to me, then is jerked away as the spike fades. My mouth opens on his pillow, my tongue licking the cotton fabric, starving for a taste of his sweat. I remember the softness of his lips the one time I kissed him, when he was drowning under the dark water, hurt in the accident, trapped, dying... My body writhes in a spike that involves my sense of touch, exquisite pain grabbing at my nerve endings, mocking the memory of Blair's yielding lips under mine.

I have no idea what time it is, how long since I called him. If the phone rang, I didn't hear it, though I remember crescendos of sound that nearly deafened me coming every so often in the past hours. I roll over on the bed, wiping at my streaming eyes to focus on the bedside clock. It's eleven thirty.

If he got the message, why hasn't he called? Maybe he did and I missed it. I should go into the living room and get the phone... but my attempt to get up fails. I couldn't walk out of this room if it was on fire. Instead I sag back on the bed, fingers groping for the cell phone at my belt. I punch in his number and hold my breath while the phone rings.

"Hello?" The voice that answers sounds sleepy and muffled but it's his.

I'm so overwhelmed to hear him I can't even answer for a moment.

"Hello?" he says again, this time more awake. Then, as though he's psychic, he asks, "Jim, is that you?"

I somehow make my lips move. "Y-yes's me. Blair..."

"God, Jim, you sound awful." He's fully awake now. I picture him sitting up in his bed, pushing his hair back from his face. "Jim, tell me what's going on."

I lick my lips, noting how dry my mouth is. "Migraine," I whisper. "It started early this afternoon. And... then I started having spikes -- " the last word ends on a groan as another one hits me.

"Jim... " He sounds worried and a little annoyed with me.

"S-sorry. Did I wake you?" I ask, praying he won't hang up.

"Yeah, but don't worry about that. Tell me what's going on. You said 'spikes,' as in plural?"

"Yeah. They keep hitting me, every... few minutes. It's weird... " I try to brush it off, feeling like a weakling for letting little bursts of sensory awareness hurt like this.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Since... I got home."

"Jim, it's almost three a.m. here. That means it's almost midnight there -- why did you wait so long to call me?"

I close my eyes, not really up to answering questions but willing to do anything to keep his voice flowing over the phone lines. "I did call... when I first got home. You... were busy..."

"Huh? What do you mean? The phone hasn't rung here all night."

"Some guy answered. I gave him my name..."

"Shit!" The expletive hurts my ear and I can't help a moan. "Jim?" His voice is immediately softer. "Man, I'm sorry. Did that hurt you?" I can't answer, not wanting to make him feel bad. "Look," he goes on, his tone soothing now, " that was my assistant. I guess he forgot to tell me you called. I'm sorry, Jim. I'd never not call you back. Understand?"

The gentleness in his voice almost makes me weep. It's everything I can do not to sob aloud.

"Understand, Jim? I left but I'm not going to shut you out. I told you to call me any time. If you call again and someone else answers, stay on the line 'til I can pick up, okay?" He pauses, his voice growing distressed as he continues, "God, you've been hurting all night and I... Okay, let's both just take it easy here. You with me, Jim? You listening?"

"I'm listening," I rush to assure him. "Keep talking, okay?" The sound of his voice is all I want, all I need.

"Where are you?" he asks.

"Your room." The answer is out before I can stop it and my face goes hot at the admission. I clear my throat roughly. "When I hung up the phone, my head started hurting worse and... I just thought going in here would... help..."

"Did it?" His voice is patient, soft as a gentle hand on my head.

"Can't tell. The spikes started in here. Guess that's because I'm in here, close to all your stuff."

"Oh, man... "

"No, it's okay. I don't mind, really. It's easing up now too." And it was, my headache finally beginning to recede a little. "I haven't been in here since right after you left... until tonight."

There's a moment of silence as though he's digesting that statement and I start to worry that I've said too much.

"Jim," he breathes at last, "I wish I was there with you right now." His voice is small, almost afraid to admit that.

"Blair..." I gasp, my heart starting to pound in a confusion of feeling. "I... "

But he has more to say. "I could... rub your head for you if you'd want me to. You know, circle my fingers at your temples... "

"Mmmhmm," I sigh, trying to make an encouraging sound, desperate for him to keep up the verbal comfort. I can hardly let myself think about what it would be like if he was here, to touch me that way. His touch was always the best, always centered me, took away my pain... And I lost that when I hurt him.

"And I'd turn down all the lights so they wouldn't hurt your eyes," he tells me, voice a whisper, a balm to my abused psyche. "Have you got the lights off, Jim?"

"Yeah," I manage. "There's just the one in the kitchen on."

"Okay." He pauses. "Did you have any dinner?"

"No," I admit to him. "I felt too sick to eat."

"You should drink something at least," he advises. "You think you can get out to the kitchen for some juice or Gator Aid or something?"

Although the pain is easing and the spikes have stopped, I'm not sure I have my sea legs yet. "I'll try," I tell him, already swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

"How you doin'?" he asks me after a moment.

"Mmnn... I'm woozy."

"Take it slow. Don't stand up until you're ready. Just breathe a few minutes. In... and out... in and out... "

I want to cry hearing him talk to me like this. It's the first time since the accident that he's sounded this confident, this caring. And to hear him able to reach out, to know he's moving beyond his own terrible pain...

"Blair? Are you okay?" I ask, suddenly concerned about him too.

"I'm all right," he assures me. "Don't worry about me right now. I'm fine. Can you stand up?"

Anything for you, Blair. I take a deep breath and push up from the futon, staggering a little, but managing not to keel over or anything embarrassing like that.

"I'm up," I inform him, taking a shaky step forward. "Keep talking, okay?"

"Okay. You can do it, Jim. Just take it slow."

"I'm in the kitchen." I bend to open the refrigerator, finding only some bottled water inside. I take out a bottle and open it, drinking in long swallows. It's cold and hits me like a bowl of ice cream I rushed through. "Unnhh..."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. That was pretty cold."

"You need to do anything else before you go to sleep? Take a leak, maybe?"

"Guess so." I guess I should be hanging up. "I'll let you go then..."

"No, you don't have to hang up. I'll keep talking to you, if you want me to." He sounds almost diffident, as though he thinks I might refuse.

"Please. If you don't mind."

"Jim. I don't mind." He sounds very serious, his voice seems so close to me.

I'm in the bathroom now and have to hold the cell under my chin, needing both hands to unzip my pants. "I'll just be a minute... " It's oddly intimate, talking to him while I go.

"No rush," I hear him say.

"I'm keeping you awake." I'm finished but I make no move to tuck myself away and zip up.

"I'm fine," he whispers. "I don't have a class 'til noon, man." His voice seems to travel from the phone, down my arm and into my fingers still loosely clasping my dick.

I let go abruptly, feeling as though I was doing something improper, and refasten my pants.

"You okay?" he asks me, sensitive to every breath I take.

"Y-yeah... "

"Go to bed then, Jim. Lie down and go to sleep."

I turn, woozy again from the movement, but I manage to make my way out of the bathroom. The stairs and my bed seem a hundred miles away. Even the couch, the place I usually fall asleep, is annoyingly far.

"Jim, you were in my room before," his soft voice comes to me again, as though he can see me, as though he knows how I'm feeling. "You should sleep there, unless you're going to keep having those spikes... "

To sleep in his room, in his bed... "Okay. I'll... see how it is." Once back in his room, a peace descends over me and I sink gratefully onto his bed. "Mmmnnn... "

"Okay?" he checks.

"So far, so good."

"How's your headache?"

"You could rub my temples some more," I manage with a bemused half smile.

"You'd want me to do that?" his voice is wary.

"Oh yeah. Feels good... " I take a deep breath. "You've... kept your distance... lately."

"Jim, I... "

"And that was my fault," I finish for him. "I hurt you. I don't blame you for not wanting to be... close to me."

"Jim... "

"Shhh," I interrupt. "I'm okay." He pauses; we both know it's too late at night to get into that subject. The fact that these few words have been said though, it helps me so much.

"You still dressed?"

"Huh? Yeah... "

"You can't sleep like that. Still got your shoes on?"

"Yeah."

"Come on, man. Untie 'em and take 'em off."

With a groan, I do as he tells me. But sitting up to take off my shoes makes my head spin and when I'm finished, I sink back down with a groan.

"Too much?" his soothing voice asks. "Just get comfortable then. Unbutton your shirt."

Fingers a little shaky, I comply.

"Undo your belt."

"Okay... " Exhausted when I'm finished that, I mutter into the phone. "I'm all in, buddy."

There's a gentle smile in his voice. "I know. Can you sleep now?"

"Think so... I'm sorry I woke you."

"Forget it."

"I want to come bring you your stuff, Blair. I think... the sooner I do it, the better things will be." I want to see you so much, don't tell me to wait.

"Only if you think you're going to be okay to drive. Besides, it's February. What about the roads if it snows?"

"Blair, I miss you." Damn, I shouldn't have said it like that.

"I miss you too, Jim."

The distance between us seems to vanish; it's like we're in the same room. "Oh, God... Blair, I -- "

"Shhh. We'll talk when you get here, okay, man?" He pauses a moment. "We'll really talk."

"Sounds good. You go back to sleep now, too. I don't... don't want you to start hurting from not getting enough sleep."

"I'm okay," he insists.

"You sure?" My head on his pillow, I'm barely awake, but I need to know.

"I was having some pain earlier in the evening," he finally admits. "But it's eased up now. It's... it's good hearing your voice, Jim."

"Same here." We soothed each other tonight, I think. It feels like old times, so much it makes my heart ache. I drift off without cutting the phone connection between us.

"Bill, I'm glad you're here," I say in what I hope is a deceptively welcoming tone as he comes through the door. I spent most of last night thinking about what I was going to say to him about not telling me Jim called yesterday. I'm tired this morning, my legs hurt like crazy, but I know what I'm going to say.

"Morning, Blair," Bill says, smiling broadly at me as he hurries to my side. "How are you doing today?"

"Not so good, as a matter of fact."

"You're not?" His voice is sympathetic but there's something else in his eyes that creeps me out. He looks almost pleased, as though he wants me not to be feeling well. "What's wrong?"

"Bill, did you take a phone call for me yesterday?" I ask, ignoring the question.

He looks surprised. "Uh... oh, shoot, yeah I did, Blair. Some guy called and I forgot to tell you about it."

"Are you sure you forgot?" I may not be a cop anymore but I'm still good at telling when someone isn't telling me the truth. Maybe I was good at it even before becoming a cop -- teachers are good at that too.

Bill's face sort of falls, but he recovers quickly. "Yeah. Of course. What do you mean?"

"I'm just wondering how it was that you forgot. Isn't it your job to help me out?"

"Blair, I'm sorry. I just... forgot. It won't happen again."

"I don't think you forgot. For some reason, I think you purposely didn't tell me Jim called."

"Jim?" he asks, pretending that he doesn't recall the name.

"Come on, Bill. You remember who Jim is. You saw his picture the other day. You know he was my roommate. You know he was my partner when I was a cop." His face is studiously blank. "He's the one you thought was my boyfriend," I conclude, my tone sharpening.

Bill just gapes at me.

"You think he didn't call me back? You think he wouldn't tell me he'd called hours earlier?"

"I... I..."

"Bill, I don't know what your problem is, but I can't take this anymore."

"Take what? Blair, I don't have a problem -- "

"Yes, you do, Bill. You're just a little too friendly, just a little too helpful. There's something wrong with your interest in me being... handicapped."

"Blair... " He kneels down to come to eye level with me. "I just want to help you, that's all."

"If you wanted to help me, you'd've told me Jim called me."

"Damn it, I told you I just forgot! I don't see what's got you so pissed off -- " He cut off his sharp words and he seemed to work at smoothing the tense lines on his face. His hand reached out toward my arm. "Blair, I like you. I like you a lot. I don't care about you being an amp."

I can't help a shudder at the way he said that word, realizing at the same instant that it's the first time he's used that one. It's like slang, like an insiders term. And I know in my gut it's a term he's used before, but privately.

"An 'amp'?" I shout, horror flushing through me. "You don't care about it? I think that's why you applied for the job! I know about your old girlfriend, the one who was an amputee. You've got some kind of sick interest going on here and I'm not going to be your lab rat!"

"It's not that!" he hurls back at me. "I don't want to... to study you!"

"You make me feel like you've got me under a microscope. You come in here all the time, whether I've said I need you or not. You open the door yourself. You do things for me that I'm able to do on my own. I don't want that."

"Blair...I don't know what to say. Sure, I have an interest in people... people like you. But I don't mean anything by it."

"You don't see me as a person. You see this chair. You see some helpless 'amputee' who needs your assistance." I'm breathing hard now. I hate confrontations. My arms are shaking. My legs feel like they're on fire. "I just can't deal with that kind of attention," I tell him, feeling strung out. "I'm going to have to ask you not to come back any more. I'll find someone else to be my assistant."

He stands up abruptly. "You're firing me? Just because I forgot to tell you about a phone call?"

"If you want to see it that way, yeah." I guess he's never going to understand the way his attitude has made me feel.

"That's not fair, man!" he yells. "Give me another chance."

"I don't think so. It's just not working out, Bill."

"Blair... I thought we were friends..."

I sigh, hating to make the guy feel bad. But my feelings are important. Much as it hurts to argue, I know I've got to stand up for myself. Well, figuratively at least.

"Bill, just let it go, okay? I haven't felt comfortable for awhile now. When I realized you didn't tell me about Jim calling last night, I knew it wasn't going to work out."

"I guess this Jim means more to you than you said the other day," he says, his voice a sneer.

I refuse to give him more ammunition. "He means more to me than you do. That call was important last night, Bill. He didn't call just to shoot the breeze with me."

"I get it," he says rolling his eyes.

"No, you don't get it. But I mean it, Bill. I want you to go now."

"Blair, I need this job -- "

"I'll be glad to give you a recommendation. I'm sure somebody else needs a TA."

He sneers again. "I don't need your charity. I'll find another job on my own." He turns to go, hesitating at the door. "I hope you and your boyfriend Jim will be very happy," he throws out, the nasty tone making me wince. When he slams the door, my whole body seems to feel the blow.

At least that's over. I wipe my sleeve over my face, realizing I'm sweating like I just finished a therapy session. I feel relieved though. I just couldn't take Bill's obsequious manner any more and when I found out about Jim calling, that was the last straw.

I glance at my watch. It's ten here so it's seven in Cascade. Jim's probably up by now and getting ready for work, unless he feels bad again this morning. I'd call him but...I'd hate to wake him up if he's sleeping.

Just as I'm thinking about using it, the phone starts ringing. I pull it out of my pocket and answer. "Hello?"

"Morning."

It's Jim. His voice is so welcome I can feel the smile spreading over my face. "Hi," I answer softly. "I was just thinking about you. I thought it was too early to call though."

"I'm up. Gotta get to work."

There's a smile in his voice too. "Well, I thought maybe you'd sleep in this morning. You probably need it."

He draws in a deep breath. "I feel better this morning." There's a pause. "I slept good last night, thanks to you."

"I'm glad, Jim."

"I'm going to talk to Simon this morning about taking time off to come visit you," he tells me. "I should be able to leave by the weekend."

"Are you sure, Jim? I don't want you driving all this way if you're having severe headaches all the time."

"I'll be fine," he insists. And since I don't want to have to wait too much longer to see him, what can I do but agree? Firing Bill has made me think about how alone I am here. "How are you this morning? Did you get back to sleep after we talked last night?"

"Sure," I tell him, even though it's a lie. "Slept like a log."

"Really? You sound a little tired."

"You can't tell that over the phone, man," I argue, rubbing a hand over my face.

"Can't I?" his voice is half teasing, half concerned. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," I insist. "All right, I could have gotten a little more shut eye last night, but I don't want you blaming yourself for that."

"I'm the one that woke you."

I manage a chuckle. "Okay, I'll yell at you when you get here if that'll make you feel better."

"Okay," he agrees easily. "It's a deal." After a pause he continues, "Are you having any pain?"

I feel myself blush at the way he can still read me, at that protective tone he still gets in his voice.

"Some."

"Take some of your medication then," Jim advises. "I don't want you going around hurting."

When it's this bad, the pills don't work but I'm not going to get into that issue with him now. "Okay. I'll take it. I've been going to physical therapy regularly too. I found a nice therapist."

"You did?" He sounds pleased. "That's good. I'm glad to hear that, Blair."

The soft tenderness in his tone feels like a hug. Bill didn't seem to think I should go to therapy, I recall. Of course not; without it, I wouldn't be as strong. I'd need his kind of help more.

"Something wrong?"

"You know that guy that answered the phone yesterday when you called?" I ask him.

"Yeah. What about him?"

"He was my assistant. I let him go this morning."

"You fired a teaching assistant? I didn't know you could do that."

"Yeah, it's allowed, Jim." I smile. "He was making me uncomfortable and when he didn't tell me you called... that was the last straw."

"What do you mean he was making you uncomfortable?" Jim sounds worried now.

Great, I shouldn't have told him that. "He was just a little overzealous. He got on my nerves." I decided not to tell Jim I think Bill purposely didn't tell me he'd called, he doesn't need to worry about that. Besides, it's over with now that I've fired Bill.

"Oh," he answers. "Well, I guess you did the right thing then. And... when I get there, I'll hang around for awhile if you need some help."

Words catch in my throat hearing him say that. After a moment, still unable to directly comment on what he said, I ask, "You sure Simon will give you that much time off?"

"I still have some vacation time," he says.

"Great," I say, feeling a little faint. I thought he'd used it all up when I was convalescing.

We spend a few more minutes talking, discussing the trip Jim's planning and I tell him some stuff about the classes I'm teaching. It feels so almost normal I hardly know how to act. I'm looking forward to seeing him, but I'm worried too. He assures me he's perfectly capable of driving cross country and that he thinks he can make the trip in four or five days. That's after I get him to agree that he can't drive straight through without stopping to sleep. I heard the urgency in his voice and knew he might try to push himself like that.

Our conversations have been so good these last few days but I'm still feeling sort of nervous about seeing him. On the phone, I can talk to him like I used to. But when he's here and we're face to face... I don't know... what I'm missing now might come between us again, like it did when I was home with him. God, I hope that isn't what happens. I'd hate to make him come all this way just to get hurt again. And I don't feel like hurting much more myself either. But I think it's worth taking the chance.

Thank god this day is over. I fumble with the lock to my apartment, my fingers shaking so much I can barely get them in the lock. It's been a long day, starting with the stress of firing Bill and continuing through the three classes I had to teach -- all freshmen, all no more interested in anthropology than I am in mountain climbing. At least Sherry was in the last class of the day so I felt like there was one friendly face out there. I almost stopped her after class to tell her I'd fired Bill but ended up not saying anything. If she comes to talk to me again, I'll probably tell her then, I just didn't feel up to it today. The pain in my legs -- my missing legs -- is pretty bad tonight. I guess the loss of sleep and the stress have caught up with me. One of those orange capsules is starting to look pretty good right about now.

"Hi there," a voice calls out before I can get the door open.

I jump in my chair, startled. I'm not used to people calling out to me. I turn in my seat to look over. It's one of my neighbors, a guy I've seen in the hall a few times.

"Hi, Tony," I manage as I fumble with my door lock. At least it's not Bill. Tony is my neighbor because he's like me -- handicapped.

He's in a chair; I think he's a paraplegic.

"Everything okay?" he asks, rolling closer.

I feel myself tensing up at his approach.

"Uh, yeah. I've just had a long day, y'know?" The lock finally yields to my key and I push open the door.

"You're new in town, aren't you, Blair?" Tony asks despite my lack of interest in the conversation.

"Yeah. I just moved here before classes started this semester."

"That's what I thought," he goes on with a smile. Then, apparently noticing my reticence, he adds, "If you need anything or if you'd just like to hang out, just come on over, any time."

The offer is heartfelt, I can tell, and at least I can be sure Tony doesn't have some weird interest in me 'cause I'm in a chair. I dredge up a smile. "Thanks, Tony. That really sounds good."

"You like basketball?"

"Yeah." I wonder what he's driving at.

"Do you play?"

I stare at him, but he doesn't look crazy. His expression just shows friendly interest.

"Uh...not lately." I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but I gesture toward where my legs should be.

To my surprise, Tony doesn't look embarrassed. He grins and nods his head. "I mean do you play wheelchair basketball?"

"Oh. I...uh...never thought about it." Now that I recall, I know there are wheelchair sports... I just never thought about them in relation to myself. I've been thinking that sports, like so many things now, were gone from my life for good.

"Well, we've got a team, the guys here in the building, and if you'd like to join up, you'd be more than welcome."

"Really?" My face must look shocked, because Tony actually chuckles.

"Really," he grins. "I mean, if you like to play."

The idea is laid out in front of me, something I used to love but thought I'd lost. It's tempting, but I feel scared. What if I can't do it? How do I do it? And worst of all, what if I fall out of my chair and get hurt? I take a deep breath. "Thanks, Tony, but I don't know. This is still not something I completely know how to deal with yet. Maybe sometime..."

Tony's face softens and he nods. "I understand. I felt that way at the beginning too. I was afraid I'd fall, or hurt myself worse. But I also really wanted to do something besides just sit in this chair. Now, when I'm out there on the court, it's like there's nothing wrong with my body at all."

His words reach out to me, the light and excitement in his eyes pull at me. My heart hurts, aching with the pain of many losses. I want to take what he's offering, believe he's right, but uncertainty has dominated my soul for so long I'm not sure I really can accept that there are things I can still do. "I'll think about it, Tony. Maybe I could come watch a game and see... see what it's like."

"Sure," he enthuses. "Any time. Once you see how cool it is, you'll want to play on the team."

I find myself chuckling. "I used to love playing basketball. I was even pretty good at it, but I never actually made a team before."

"How come?" Tony asks.

My hand waves up and down my body. "Well, when you're 5 feet 8 you don't exactly find yourself being drafted by every team in the NBA, much less being picked for the college squad."

Tony laughs. "Well, Blair, look at it this way -- in wheelchair basketball, height doesn't matter at all. Let me know when you'd like to take in a game. I'll see you later."

"I guess that's true." It was something that hadn't occurred to me before. I grin back at Tony. "See you later, man." I wheel in to my apartment, outlook a little better than it was before. Basketball -- to actually play a sport again -- and to maybe be almost as good at it as I used to be... To think that, with everybody on both teams sitting down my height would totally not matter....

A fierce cramp cuts off my thoughts and I reach automatically to rub at the offending area, halting in annoyance when I realize my mistake. I forgot again, got distracted and forgot I can't rub the hurt out of something that doesn't exist. Ticked off by my lapse I head for the bathroom, opening the low medicine cabinet to search out my neurontin capsules and quickly swallow two of them. I can't think about playing sports when this damn pain takes all the strength out of me...it takes most of the will out of me too. I guess guys like Tony, who can't feel anything, don't have to worry about pain.

Great, Blair. Now you're feeling so sorry for yourself you think some paralyzed guy has got it easier. Get a grip.

I look at myself in the mirror. What I see looks unfamiliar. Who is that long-haired guy with the tight, drawn features, pale from lack of sun, with circles under his eyes? Whose eyes are those anyway? I remember my eyes used to look bright and alive. Now they seem dull, more a flat slate color than the blue I remember. I peer more closely, but getting a better look is hard. I can't seem to meet my own gaze. I realize now that I have a hard time meeting anyone's eyes straight on, my own included apparently. I don't like to feel like I'm being scrutinized, dissected, judged. Or pitied. That's the worst. I know that, except when I'm teaching, I keep my head down, my eyes averted. I hardly ever tie my hair back any more either, now that it's grown out from being cut short when I was on the force with Jim. With it hanging loose, it can fall forward around my face, hiding me from prying gazes.

My neighbor Tony doesn't look like that, neither does my student, Sherry. They don't seem to want to hide from life.

Is this what Jim saw when he looked at me, all those months when I was so depressed, so angry with him? Do I want this to be what he sees when he comes here with my stuff? Is this what I want the world to see when they look at me? Do I want to have let this change me so much even I don't recognize myself?

I know the answer; six months ago it would have been different. I wouldn't have cared one way or the other. But now, I do. I've come this far, left Cascade to start teaching again, to start my life over again too. I left because I couldn't deal with my pain while Jim was around. I'm here now and doing okay on my own. I guess it's time to admit that I've accepted the idea of being alive. I really should start looking like I am alive.

That settled, I grab my comb and give my hair a good run through, pulling it back when I'm finished, anchoring it with a forgotten elastic band I find in the bottom of my shaving kit. Feeling hungry, I glance at my watch and note it's six thirty. I really should go out to eat instead of nuking another frozen meal or ordering in. Suddenly decisive, and braver than I've felt in ages, I head back out of the apartment. There's a little Italian place just down the street. Spaghetti sounds good, with plenty of mushrooms and thick sauce. Maybe some garlic bread.

For a second, I think about asking Tony if he'd like to join me since he was so nice telling me about the wheelchair basketball team, but instead I decide this is something I should do on my own this first time. Taking a deep breath, I open the door and go out to face the world... and let it face me.

"Jim, just how much time do you need to take off to get Blair's stuff to him?" Simon asks me, looking up over his glasses as he sits at his desk surrounded by papers.

"I'm not sure, sir," I tell him. "The drive itself will take at least 4 or 5 days -- "

"I don't think you should be pushing that, Jim," Simon interrupts. "You haven't been feeling so good..."

"I know, sir. That's another reason I'm not sure how long I need. And once I get there...I might... I might stay awhile." It's been over a week since my last bad headache when I called Blair in the middle of the night, more than a month since he left.

"Jim, I know you went for years without taking much time off. You had more vacation time saved up than I do. But don't you realize you used a lot of it when Blair was first injured?"

The memory of those days still hurts. I took off, to try to be there for him, but he kept shutting me out, wouldn't let me in. I spent a lot of the time just sitting alone while he was in bed in his room.

"I know that. If I don't have enough vacation time, I'd like to take a leave of absence."

"That sounds pretty serious, Jim." Simon looks at me, waiting for an answer I'm not sure I have.

I glance away, looking out his window at the city. "I guess it is. If he wants me to stay for awhile, I want to be able to do that. I don't want to have to jump back in the car and drive right back here."

"What about your cases?"

"I've just closed the Morton case and I've talked to Connor about taking over my other ones."

"Jim, you know how much I depend on you around here..."

"I don't feel I've been doing my best for the last year, Simon," I say, sinking into a chair and looking at him. "Blair's willing to talk about things now. I think that's more important than... than anything."

Simon sighs, takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Okay, Jim. I know how you feel about the kid. It's a damn shame he got hurt and just as bad is what it's done to you..."

"Simon -- " I can't handle him talking like that, referring to it, being sympathetic to me. It was my fault, all of it, the accident itself, and what I had to do to save Blair.

He held up a hand. "I'm not going to dredge it up, Jim. I just want you to know I understand. I'll sign your leave papers. You can take off as soon as you have to. You keep in touch though, okay?"

"I will, sir." Relieved, I stand and take Simon's outstretched hand. Now all I have to do is fill out my leave papers, pack the car and I'll be on my way.

How is it that part of me can feel so good and the rest of me can feel so much like shit? I push out of my chair and sit on the bed, pulling off my sweaty clothes, figuring a shower will help. I've been at physical therapy again and I admit it helps some, but right now my legs are killing me.

I never thought I'd be into weight lifting but I think that's my favorite thing to do at therapy now. The other exercises and practicing transferring and doing things for myself are fine but weight lifting makes me think of Jim. I'll never have the kind of body he does but I am feeling stronger. The therapist says the upper body conditioning is what I need -- both to get around in the chair and when I decide to start using my prosthetics again. Granted, that's true but I think what it really does for me is give me some extra confidence. I've felt so vulnerable since the accident, like with such a big part of me missing, I'm fragile, weak. Using my strength makes me feel better, like there is stuff I can do, despite... well, despite everything.

I'm down to my shorts when the phone rings. Hoping it's Jim, I push myself across the bed to grab it up.

"H'lo?"

"Blair? Is that you?"

It takes me a minute to recognize the voice, then I'm so surprised I can hardly answer. "Joel?"

A soft chuckle comes over the phone line. "Yeah, it's me, Blair. Been a long time, hasn't it?"

"It sure has." I feel suddenly awkward, knowing I shut my friends out even more than I did Jim. "How'd you get my number?"

"From Simon. I... hope it's okay that I called."

I hear the hesitancy in his voice and rush to reassure him. I wouldn't for the world make Joel feel bad. "No, it's great. Great to hear from you." I'm stammering and I know it but can't figure out what else to say or how to stop. "What...what can I do for you, man?" Not that there's anything I can really do for him, at this distance and the way I am now.

"I just wanted to be sure you were doing okay," Taggert answers easily. "I know Jim is coming out there to see you soon and I thought I'd give you a call first. I've been worried about both of you." It's so easy for Joel to admit things like this.

"I'm doing fine," I tell him, meaning it. "I still have my bad days and all and I wish...I wish I could get together with you and the guys but...I sorta had to get away, you know? Being in Cascade just got too hard." I bite my lip, fearing I'm about to get emotional and not really comfortable with showing how much I'm still hurting inside from what happened.

"I understand." Joel's voice is fatherly, but respectful, more man-to-man than that. "You helped me with my fears about defusing bombs, Blair, after I was so messed up following the Bracket bomb stuff. And I...I just wanted to know if there was anything I could do for you."

I sigh, rubbing my aching shoulder. "I don't think there is, Joel. But it's nice of you to ask."

"I kinda figure all this has been hard for you to accept," he persists. "I guess it would be for me too."

Accept... that's the problem all right. His words kick me back to those first days in the hospital, the way I felt I'd been cheated so badly. There I was, half my body literally ripped away. I'd been ready to die. I would have... and if I had, I'd at least be all in one piece. Jim had told me, the doctors had told me... that my legs had been too messed up to save. But a part of me had refused to believe that. Jim hadn't wanted me to die. He couldn't move the truck and he couldn't stop the water. If not for the water, maybe the rescue squad could have gotten the truck off me and saved my legs...

"Yeah, Joel," I hear myself saying, "it's been hard for me to accept. I look down at myself and I still can't really believe it happened." I've never said that out loud before. I can feel heat spreading over my face at the words. My gaze follows my words; sitting here in my boxers, it's so obvious.

"I had a friend in the army," Joel began after a moment. I try to listen to him, if only to push aside my embarrassment and pain. "I was in Nam, you know."

"No, I guess I didn't," I answer, feeling like a bad friend for not knowing that about him.

"Yeah, that's where I learned to take bombs apart," he tells me now, easily.

"Guess that gave you a lot of practice."

"Yeah, I won some... and I lost some though." Joel pauses. "Like I was saying, I had this friend. He stepped on a bomb. One of those Bouncing Betty's you've probably heard about. A land mine."

"Oh." That must have hurt Joel bad. But I realize it didn't stop him from the work he was doing. "You couldn't have prevented that, could you, man?" I ask, wanting to have back my old ability to make this gentle man feel better.

"No, I couldn't have and I knew that. I just wanted to tell you about my friend." Joel pauses and I find myself holding my breath, instinct telling me what he's about to say. "He lost both his legs when the mine went off."

A part of me shuts down, not wanting to hear a story about some guy who went on to a full life despite horrible injuries. I know Joel means well, but...

"And he couldn't accept it either," he's saying, oblivious to the fact that I'm so desperate not to hear this supposedly inspirational story I'm about to hang up the phone on him. "He kept saying that his legs would have been fine, that the doctors didn't have to take them off."

"You said the bomb blew them off." My lips feel numb as the words tumble out.

"Well, not exactly. The bomb tore them up pretty bad. One of them was gone from the knee down when they got to him, but the other... well, it was just mangled."

"Yeah?" Something is making my ears buzz.

"Frank kept saying that if the docs had really tried, had really wanted to, they could have saved his legs. No matter what they said, he wouldn't believe them."

All I can do is grip the phone. I can't ask for more of the story, even though I'm realizing it's not what I thought it was going to be, not some sappy tale of how the guy managed to have a great career and meet a beautiful woman and get married and... oh hell...

"You want to know what finally made him believe them?" Joel asks me at last.

"Uh... I'm not sure." I can barely breath, much less answer that question.

"We showed him his legs."

The words sound harsh, the image disgusting. But it doesn't disgust me.

"You what?"

"A couple of us went out to find the one the doctors had had to amputate -- there was a pile of them out behind the operating tent."

"Geez, Joel... how long had it been?"

"A while. But guys were losing legs and arms so fast, the orderlies couldn't always keep up."

"How'd they know... which one was Frank's?" I can hardly believe I'm asking this, imagining guys poking around in a pile of rotting, severed limbs.

"He had a tattoo on his calf."

"Oh."

"That's about all that was left, by the way."

My stomach gives a lurch. "Gee, thanks for that picture, Joel." Why is he doing this? How can this sweet man be putting these images in my head? Why's he torturing me?

"I found the other one," he says, going on relentlessly. "It was about half a mile from where the land mine he stepped on was but I found it. I brought it to the hospital for him."

I wipe sweat off my face, feeling sick inside. "Great, Joel. I'll bet old Frank really thanked you guys for that."

"Actually, he did." Joel pauses as though waiting.

"He thanked you?"

"Yeah. When he finally saw how badly his legs were ripped up, he knew the doctors couldn't have done anything else."

Now I see the reason he's telling me this. "Oh." Too bad this didn't happen to me. But there wasn't a handy pile of amputated limbs for my friends to go searching through.

"I was thinking," Joel says when it's clear I'm not going to make any further comment, "that if you could... could have seen... well, that maybe it would have been easier for you."

I close my eyes, remembering how I'd felt in those first days, how unreal it all had seemed. Parts of my body had been cut off and I'd never see them again. It was like finding out a friend had died but not believing it 'cause you couldn't make it to the funeral.

"And I just wanted you to know, Blair," Joel's voice breaks into my pain, "that if you... if you ever want to see... I have something I could show you."

For a couple of minutes, his words don't even make sense. Something he could show me? God, did he have my legs in a jar or something? "What do you mean?"

"I went to the accident scene," he says softly as though realizing how hard this is for me to hear. "There was a crew there, doing clean up, doing reports."

I'd never thought about that. I hadn't wanted to think about it.

"You... you saw...?" I can't even say the words.

"No. That part... that part was already done when I got there."

I'm not sure why he's telling me all this if that's so. If he didn't see my legs...

"But I knew the guy taking the photographs of the scene," Joel continues quickly, "for the reports." He waits but my mind feels filled with cotton. "I've got the pictures, Blair. If you ever want to see them, if you think you could handle it, I think it could help you."

Oh god. I feel like the world has just dropped out from under me. I find myself gripping the headboard of my bed with my left hand while the right grips the phone so tight I might break it. To look at pictures of... no! I want to scream that I can't, that I won't... that I'd have to be sick in the head to want to see... but a part of me freezes at that, can't really deny that I could. I could look. It was part of me, after all. How bad could it really be? And why not? Didn't I, of all people, have the right to see?

"Oh, man," I breathe, not knowing what to say. My head is spinning, not just from the impact of what Joel's told me, but from realizing what it must have taken for him to call me to let me know, to make this offer.

"What do you think, Blair?"

I'm shaking. I can't be sure. What if... what if I looked and it destroyed what little recovery I've made so far? What if it depressed me even more to see... God, what it must look like...

"I don't know, Joel. I honestly don't know." I swallow, try to show him I at least appreciate the offer. "I...thanks for calling me though. For letting me know about this. You're... you're a good friend." I realize I haven't let any of my friends in for so long.

He lets out a heavy sigh. "I'm glad you're not mad I brought it up."

I nearly cringe, realizing he wouldn't have been sure of my reaction at all, not considering the way I'd taken this whole thing. "You're a good friend, Joel," I say now, trying to make him understand I mean that, despite the poor way I'd handled things in the past. "You could call and tell me anything. I mean that."

I can hear him relax, the way his breathing loses its tension. "Thanks, Blair. I just want to help."

"I know. I really appreciate that."

We say a few more words and then hang up. A shiver runs through me, having nothing to do with sitting here in my boxers all sweaty from my workout. I close my eyes, imagining myself on an operating table, doctors stitching up wounds in my legs, legs that are still attached to my body.

Pain tears up through nonexistent nerves and I grab at what's left of my legs, moaning. I'm rocking back and forth on the bed, willing the pain to ease up, to stop killing me this way, to stop tormenting me with the memory of what I've lost. Finally, as it ebbs a little, I climb back into my chair and head for the bathroom, wishing I'd been in the shower when Joel called so I wouldn't have to think about the pictures he told me about.

Man, this is difficult. More difficult than I thought it would be. I thought that, knowing I was taking Blair's things to him, touching them wouldn't mess me up the way it is. I keep having spikes, some so slight they don't really stop me, others so bad I have to quit and rest until everything settles back down again. The spikes are weird. They're like brief flashes of what it was like to be a Sentinel, then, like blowing out a candle, the senses are gone again, downgraded back to normal.

And part of me, God help me, wishes they would last, that the senses could come back. I know I don't deserve to be a Sentinel any more, that hurting my guide is what took them away from me... but I had to save him. That imperative was as genetic as the senses themselves, the way Blair always said they were. What a vicious circle -- as a Sentinel, I needed my guide alive. To keep my guide alive, I had to hurt him. Hurting him, I paid the price of losing my senses.

Damn, it's not that I mind having paid that price. Blair's life is worth more than anything I've ever owned.

Sometimes, I dream they're back....last night, I held a piece of wood in my hand, fingers gliding over it to see what I could determine from it. And at my side, whispering encouragement and suggestions, was Blair. When I woke and realized it wasn't real, it was almost enough to make me cry. He'd been standing next to me, strong and beautiful as I remember him being, smiling, believing in me so much. I've got nothing to make him believe in me now. I'm only his friend, the friend who hurt him trying to save his life.

I want to see him so badly, yet I'm afraid of the look that might be in his eyes when we meet again. I want to tell him how sorry I am -- yeah, I know I've told him that before but it's never seemed enough. I want to make sure he's okay, that he's doing all right, eating right, feeling okay. It kills me to know that even now, all these months later, he still has so much pain.

Gotta keep working if I want to be able to leave on Saturday. I've packed up a lot of books, some of his clothes. The clothes are the hardest; there are so many memories associated with each one of his shirts or sweaters. I'm not even sure of what all to take to him. We've talked a little about some of the things he'd like me to bring, but mostly I'm on my own, picking and choosing, mostly choosing everything.

I pull out another drawer and reach in, my hands closing on a blue shirt made of soft cotton. It's a deep blue color, one that I remember brought out the shade of his eyes. It feels smooth and warm to my fingers; I don't have to be a sentinel to experience its sensual qualities. I feel a pain somewhere deep in my heart remembering how he looked in this shirt, and without thinking, I lift it up, burying my face in its folds, breathing in deeply. God, his scent is still on it...

"Jim? Jim, can you hear me?"

I struggle to hear the words being spoken to me, unable even to determine who's talking.

"Jim? Jim, answer me, please!"

There's more than the voice now; a hand is shaking my shoulder. Feeling weak and exhausted, I finally manage to open my eyes.

"Jim?"

Long, reddish hair framing a face full of worry, red lipstick, a concerned accent.

"Connor?" My lips feel numb, my voice sounds hoarse.

Relief washes over her face and she pats my cheek. "Oh thank goodness. Are you all right?"

I look around, unsure of the answer. "What time is it? When did you get here?"

"I've been trying to get you to wake up for fifteen minutes," she tells me. "It's four thirty."

"A.M. or P.M.?" I ask, feeling stupid to need the clarification.

"P.M. I got off early and thought I'd stop by to see if you need some help packing Sandy's things."

"Oh, man..." The last time I looked at my watch, it was two in the afternoon. I somehow lost two hours. The scent of Blair on his blue shirt must have made me spike, put me into some sort of zone.

"Come on," Megan is saying, "let's get you up off the floor."

I feel stiff as she helps me up, shaky as we manage to get out of Blair's room and over to the couch. Connor pushes things out of the way so we have room to sit down.

"You're having sensory spikes, aren't you?" She pats my shoulder, still looking concerned.

Not knowing why I should bother to disagree, I shrug. "I don't really know what it was this time." I glance down, seeing Blair's shirt still in my hands. My sight suddenly blurs. "His things...when I look at them or... or touch them...I just... " Embarrassed, I try to hand the shirt to her.

Megan gently pushes my hands back, returning the shirt to my lap. "Does it hurt, holding that?" Her eyes are so discerning, I can hardly look into them.

"No. It wasn't...pain this time. It was like zoning out." I knew Blair had filled Megan in on some of the finer points of being a Sentinel after she'd figured out what I was. Though I'd really never spoken to her much about it, right now it comforts me to have someone here who understands. I don't know what would have happened if she hadn't stopped by.

"I'm going to get you a glass of water," she says after a moment, and leaves me on the couch to go get it.

I sit there, my fingers worrying the material of Blair's shirt, amazed at the idea that I must have zoned out on his scent. I'd like to lift it up to my nose now, but I'm afraid it'll happen again. How could I have zoned when I don't really have my Sentinel abilities anymore? The only person who might understand is Blair. I don't even know how to ask him about this though.

Connor is back with a glass of water. I gulp it gratefully, trying to determine if it tastes any different than usual. But it's just water, nothing more, nothing less. I don't know whether that's a relief or a disappointment. Could the spikes mean my senses are returning? Or are they just little jabs of pain, reminders of what I once had, once was, going away as quickly as they come?

"Do you need to call Blair?" Connor asks as I hand her the empty water glass.

I look at her sharply; what all did Simon tell her? I shrug though, not really caring at this point. "Actually, I would like to talk to him," I admit to her. I still feel off kilter and nothing soothes me like hearing his voice. She presses the phone into my hand and gracefully exits the room. As I dial, I see that she's heading into Blair's old room.

"Blair Sandburg."

The minute I hear his voice, my whole body relaxes. "Hi," I sigh into the phone.

"Hey." He sounds happy to hear from me. "What are you doing? Taking a break from packing my stuff?"

"Looks that way."

"Jim, what's wrong?" He knows me so well; his tone immediately changes, going from cheerful surprise to intent concern. "Was it another sensory spike?"

"I'm not sure. I picked up one of your shirts and noticed that..." I hesitate, realizing that I was about to tell him I'd been smelling it.

"Noticed what, Jim? Come on, man, you can tell me." Blair's voice is soft, so full of texture and substance it's almost enough to make me zone again.

"It still had your scent on it." My voice drops to a whisper.

Blair is silent for a moment while I wonder if I've embarrassed him too. "Aw, Jim. I'm sorry..."

"What have you got to be sorry about," I chide him, "not doing your laundry before you left?"

He snorts out a laugh, breaking the tension. "Okay, so the shirt had my...my smell on it. What happened then?" He said the word 'smell' like it was something disgusting.

"It wasn't like it smelled bad," I tell him, then try to get back on track. "I remember sniffing it -- and that was all. I must have had some kind of spike but I don't remember feeling it. Connor just happened to stop by and found me sitting on the floor of your room holding the shirt. It took her fifteen minutes to get me back and when I asked her the time, I realized I'd been out for at least two hours."

"Wow," Blair muses, then he falls silent for a moment, thinking. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you zoned out, man."

"Yeah, but I know better too. I can't zone out on anything if I'm not a Sentinel, can I?"

"I wouldn't think so." He's quiet a moment and I know his mind is racing. "Jim, I know this could be...you know, difficult for you, but could you make sure you bring my source books on sentinels with you? They're all in one big box in the basement of the building, along with all my notes and the stuff from the diss. I'd like to have that stuff handy in case I have to look up stuff for you." He sounds more interested in this than in anything I've heard him talk about since the accident.

But a part of me feels guilty too. "Blair, you don't have to do that. I know the whole sentinel thing isn't something you want to think about."

"I don't mind thinking about it, Jim," he says, sounding surprised.

There's a moment of strained silence. "These spikes and whatever happened this afternoon don't have to mean anything. My senses have been gone for a year. I don't think they're coming back."

"Jim... " That's all he says, my name hanging there with so much left unspoken, unnecessary. I'd like to say how terrible I'd feel if they did come back after what I did to him. He'd probably like to tell me it wouldn't matter. But neither of us can put those feelings into words. Not now.

I rub a hand over my face, so many emotions warring for my attention at once I feel nothing but confusion. "All right. I'll bring the box. I might have one of the guys get it though. Simon said he and Brown and Taggert and Rafe are coming over in the morning to help me load up." I'm not sure what would happen if I picked up that particular box myself.

"That's great," Blair says. "You mentioned Connor too...?"

"She's still here. She suggested I call you."

Blair gives a short laugh. "She always was pretty smart."

"You want me to call her to the phone?"

"Uh...I..." For the first time, he falters, no longer sounding confident. "That's okay, Jim. Unless she's standing right there looking like she wants to talk to me or something."

"No, she's in your old room, packing stuff for me, I guess."

"Oh. Good. Tell her I said hello, though."

"I will, Blair." I close my eyes, trying to visualize him holding the phone. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm doing all right."

"How's the pain?"

"It's fair today. Not so bad."

"That's good." I can't help reminding myself that I'm the reason for his pain.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay to drive all this way?" Blair's question pulls me back.

"I'm sure," I tell him, putting strength in my voice. "I don't want you worrying, okay?"

"I won't as long as you keep in touch on the way." He sounds stern; I picture no-nonsense Professor Sandburg in front of a classroom.

"I will. I'll keep my cell phone charged and call you so much you'll be sick of hearing from me."

"Yeah, right." He hesitates as though he's just realized the same thing I have -- we're