Author's website: http://alysbasement.livejournal.com/
Not mine - not yours, but tptb are generous souls who allow us to borrow freely.
This is a reworked and revised version of Polar Ice Caps - it's been thoroughly beta'd by the gang at alyjude's cellar, and any new changes (and mistakes) are mine alone. For the illustrated version, go here: http://alysbasement.livejournal.com/3733.html
I've long wanted to revise many of my stories - and have now started to do so. Coming up: Homeward Bound, Ordained (and its sequel) and several others.
This story is a sequel to:

Blair sat at his computer, fingers flying across the keyboard. The words appearing before him brought a smile to his lips as he nodded, apparently agreeing with the sentiments expressed on the screen. A buzz next to him went ignored as he continued to type. The buzz repeated itself, two, three times and he finally surrendered, stopped typing, pushed the button and said, "Lori, I'm writing."

//"I know. But you haven't picked up the paper yet."//

"Now how do you know that?" Even as he asked, he went back to typing and smiling.

//"Because I know you. Now go-get-the-paper."//

"You witch."

//"Go."//

"Going. Bye." He shut off the speaker phone and, with a grimace, got to his feet and walked to the front door. Once opened, he bent over and picked up the morning paper as ordered. Stepping back inside, he tucked it under his arm and walked into the kitchen where he poured himself a cup of hot coffee before walking back to his work table. After getting comfortable again, he unwrapped the paper and started reading, thanking God for rituals.

Rituals were good if for no other reason than they protected one's sanity.

Twenty minutes later, while perusing the personals, his attention was captured by the second to the last ad which read:

//To: BS - parts unknown
JE - 911
From: SB - Cascade//

With a shaking hand, Blair reached for the phone....

Cascade, Washington - almost two years earlier

A warm lump rolled over and bumped into Jim's side. He looked at the lump, tugged the blanket down and, after moving a mass of hair away, smiled at his partner's sleeping form. Blair, even dead to the world, had a semi-grin on his face. A moment later, Blair, after snuggling closer, pulled his arm out from under the blanket and dropped it across Jim's chest. Taking advantage of his new position, Jim wrapped his arms around his bedmate, sniffed Blair's hair and then dropped his face into the dark, curly frizz and had to admit that mornings were now his favorite time of day, be it his first waking or, as in this case, the second.

Yep, he'd already been up, had even been to the deli, and the two of them had already shared a breakfast of bagels and cream cheese. None of which changed his delight in this second waking for the simple reason that now, whenever he woke up, Blair was beside him.

Waking up with the scent of Blair, feeling his hair against Jim's sensitive skin - oh, yeah, best part of any day. He loved that he could gradually stir his partner awake with soft kisses along his neck, like now, before moving upward to pepper his jaw with more kisses until Blair turned his head - just enough that their mouths would meet - like now.

Blair shifted, groaned low, gave Jim as good as he was getting, smiled sleepily into the kiss and, when it ended, said in a husky, lustful voice, "Hi."

"Hi yourself, Chief. Sleep well second time around?"

"Very. Nice way to start the day - twice. I do believe I could get used to this."

"You should be anyway, we're one month and counting."

"Hard to believe," Blair murmured as he ran a finger down Jim's cheek.

"What's hard to believe is that I didn't tumble sooner."

Blair snorted against Jim's skin and decided that the nipple so close to his mouth should benefit from the closeness. He licked at it, then sucked and nipped. Jim arched a bit as his fingers clenched around Blair's hair and he gasped out, "How far... are you going to...take this?"

Blair raised his head and asked, "How far would you-"

Jim pushed the man's head back down and felt the thrill of Blair's chuckles against his skin. Blair went back to work and, as his mouth treated Jim's nipple to a workout, he slid his hand under the covers in order to encircle Jim's erection.

"Yeah, Blair, like that...."

Smiling around the nipple, Blair continued both activities.

Jim could feel his impending orgasm...and damn it, he could also smell...Simon's cigar.

Fuck.

"Chief...stop." He clamped his fingers over Blair's to still the hand motion even as he tried to move to a sitting position. "Listen...Simon's here."

Their captain's name was enough to get Blair's attention. He blinked up at Jim and said, "Wha'?"

"Simon," Jim hissed out, his brain back on-line. He managed to scoot out from under Blair, swing his legs over the edge of the bed and get to his feet. It was amazing how Simon could take a perfectly good erection and deflate it completely. Slipping on his robe, he ordered, "You stay put and don't make a sound. I'll tell Simon you were out all night...or something."

"My car, man."

"Shit. Okay, I'll tell him your date picked you up. Just...don't make a sound."

Jim bounded downstairs, leaving a stunned Blair staring after him and wondering why he couldn't just follow Jim. How the heck would Simon know whether Blair came from upstairs or down?

Jim's bare right foot just touched the hardwood floor when the front door opened and Simon peeked his head inside.

"You ready yet, Ellison?"

Jim skidded to a stop and, in disgust, slapped a hand against his forehead. Shit, the game. He'd completely forgotten. Putting on a cheerful if somewhat apologetic face, he answered, "Hey, Simon, come on in, and no, I'm not ready."

Wagging a finger at him, Simon stepped inside and chastised, "You left the door open, Jim. You flip out or something?"

Damn, of course, the deli run. Bagels, a naked Blair and, yes, he'd totally forgotten to lock the door. "Uhm, what can I say? I went out earlier for bagels and when I got back, I guess I fell asleep again." He gave Simon a sheepish grin. "Sorry."

"Well, get a move on. The guys are waiting." He looked around, noticed the open door to Blair's room, but no Blair, and asked, "Where's your shadow?"

"Not here," Jim answered as he started back upstairs.

"Thanks, Detective, but I figured that much. For one thing, there's a blueberry bagel there on the counter and if he were here - it wouldn't be." Jim paused and, surprised at how easily the lie came, said, "Date last night, never came home." Then he added hastily, "She picked him up."

"Doesn't it just figure that our Lothario would score a date that did the picking up? And does that mean he has another new girlfriend?"

Jim tried to shrug in a noncommittal manner as he continued upstairs. "Doesn't he always?"

"I guess I'm just surprised since he usually crows about them and he hasn't said a word."

Jim threw back what he hoped was an agreeable smile from the top of the stairs before continuing - only to come to a dead stop.

Blair was staring at him and his expression was not a happy one.

Jim took a deep breath, rushed to the closet, took out a sweater, grabbed up his jeans, socks and shoes, then walked to the bed. He leaned over, his face close to Blair's and whispered, "Sorry, buddy, forgot the game. We both did, but you know I have to go, right? Too suspicious otherwise."

Frowning, Blair nodded, but his expression told Jim that if he could, he'd argue the point, but that would mean raised voices, which wouldn't be good for anyone.

Jim started to drop a grateful kiss on Blair's lips, but Simon chose that moment to yell, "Jim, come //on//. We're late already."

Shrugging helplessly he quickly finished dressing and, with a forlorn look for his partner, headed downstairs to Simon.

Blair stared at the computer screen in front of him but the words wouldn't come.

Figures.

His mind was still on Jim and the football game that he, Simon, and two detectives from Burglary were currently attending. Not that this was Jim's fault, after all, they'd both forgotten, but Jim could have, well, faked it. He could have told Simon he wasn't feeling well, or maybe that he had to...to...well, to do //something//. And damn it, hadn't they agreed to tell Simon about their relationship, and wouldn't today have been the perfect time?

He answered himself with a heavy sigh and turned his attention back to the white - and all too empty - Word document in front of him. He was trying to finish his dissertation, his own personal deadline only two days away - but instead - he was obsessing over Jim, their relationship and when to tell. Not to mention why, on a glorious Saturday, he was alone while Jim was at a football game with "the guys" but he wasn't one of them.

Adding insult to injury, this was actually the second time in less than two weeks that had found him //not// one of the famous "guys".

Okay, in all fairness to Jim, the tickets for today's game had been offered and accepted before the two of them had become a couple, but still, he wasn't one of the guys that was included in the purchase of game tickets.

Giving himself a mental shake, he dragged his attention back to the project at hand, shoved all worries aside, and started typing. He was on his last chapter and he just might make his deadline yet.

Blair stirred the pot and checked his watch again. It was after seven, so he did some quick calculating... The game started at noon, would have been over sometime between three and four and, even if Jim had gone out afterwards, he should be home by now.

So...should he be officially worried?

He figured their relationship was still new enough that calling....

Okay, that sounded ridiculous even to him. Jim was under no obligation to call - even though before they'd started sharing a bed, he'd always done it.

He added a little more seasoning to the stew, then dropped the lid back down, lowered the heat and returned to the dining room table. Once seated, he began to pack up his notes but, before saving and shutting down his laptop, his gaze returned to the last words he'd typed....

//"The sense of responsibility that an urban sentinel must carry, the fear of failure that must dog his or her every step, can not help but color each decision made."//

He wasn't sure he liked the way it currently read, but damn, it certainly defined Jim. Of course, it would also describe just about anyone who suddenly found themselves with heightened senses. How would he have handled it? Wouldn't his fears have been magnified by being a sentinel? Undoubtedly.

Now that was a topic for a dissertation: 'The Fears of Blair Sandburg'.

And boy, he had plenty, none of which Jim knew. But man, they'd certainly been floating to the surface in the last few weeks, and had certainly been responsible for coloring more than a few of his own decisions. And even though he knew they were there, he had no desire to get to the root of them. Especially in light of the fact that Jim still wasn't home. He needed to be cool about that, couldn't let the insecure Blair Sandburg surface. He closed the lid on his computer, unplugged it and carried it into his room along with his papers. After putting everything on his desk, he returned to the dining room and decided to set the table - just in case Jim made it home in time for dinner. Once he finished that, he started preparing the salad and was just putting the finished product into the fridge when it hit him...he was preparing dinner for one because, of course, at this late hour, Jim and the others would have gone to dinner.

Blair felt that all too familiar tightening of his stomach as he turned the heat off under the stew, put away the dishes and switched off the light. He walked into the living room, bent down in front of the small fireplace, got it going and then sat down on the couch.

He really didn't like being left alone with his thoughts like this because it simply wasn't safe. Funny thing was, in the last three years, whenever he'd been in a relationship that had gone sour, he'd had Jim. He could know that the woman - or man - would eventually want out of the affair, but it didn't seem to matter because when he came home - Jim was there.

And before Jim?

Easy. Blair had simply ended the relationships first. It wasn't as if he couldn't tell when someone was getting tired of him; he could, and easily. Just like he could always tell when Naomi would become itchy and eager to move on.

Okay, this was getting him nowhere fast. He picked up the remote and powered up the television. He surfed for awhile, then stopped at the health channel. He sat back and watched, blanking out his mind.

Jim fumbled with the key but finally got it inside the lock. He turned, pushed and stumbled inside and, once there, somehow managed to get out of his jacket.

Unfortunately, when he tossed his keys, they missed the table and hit the floor. Jim adjusted his eyesight - and immediately wished he hadn't. Blair was standing a few feet away.

Busted.

Trying to look both repentant and cheerful, he waved and said, "Hey."

Smiling, Blair said, "Hey back."

"I - we went out afterwards."

"Figured as much."

"Right. So, you're not - mad?"
"Nope." Blair cocked his head and frowning, asked, "Have you been drinking?"

"Drinking?"

Blair stepped closer, sniffed, and then flicked on the light.

"Sandburg!" Jim exclaimed as he quickly shielded his eyes from the sudden glare.

"Oh, sorry. You okay?"

"I was until you blinded me without warning."

"Wow, you //have// been drinking."

"So?"

"Hey, non-judgmental here, you know? It's just that you don't - I've never seen - I mean, since your senses and all - other than a few beers, but you're like-"

"Drunk?"

"Tanked, and this is the second time in two weeks, man."

With as much dignity as he could muster, Jim started for the stairs but they seemed to be - lowering. He bent at the knees, tilted his head and everything went back to normal.

Relieved, he continued on.

Behind him, Blair bent to the right as Jim started walking like a ninety-year-old man - a short ninety year old man.

"Uhm, Jim?"

"Mmm?"

"Something wrong?"

"Not. At. All."

"Then why are you walking with your knees bent?"

Jim pointed at the stairs. "Well, the stairs - you know?"

"The stairs?"

"Yeah, you did something to them while I was gone." "I did?"

"Sure, they're - you know, lower."

"Ah. Lower. Do you need some help with the navigation?"

"Don't be silly, Sandburg. I'm perfectly capable of walking up a set of stairs even if you have futzed with them."

"Okay, just thought I'd ask."

Jim snorted and started up the shorter stairs only to find himself amazed that it was taking longer to ascend shorter steps. He stopped halfway and mused, "If the stairs are shorter, shouldn't it take me less time to climb them?"

Blair dropped Jim's keys onto the table, faced his partner and scratched his head. "Well, actually, if the stairs are shorter, it means there'd have to be more steps, you know? So logically speaking, it could take longer, see?"

Jim seemed very happy with Blair's answer. He grinned and continued on up.

Blair shook his head, locked up, turned off the gas to the fire, hit the light and followed his tanked partner only to find him, upon reaching the top of the landing, flat on his back, fully clothed, legs hanging over the edge of the bed, sound asleep and snoring up a storm.

Chuckling in spite of himself, Blair set about the task of stripping Jim before lifting his lifting his what and, with some exertion, getting him up towards the head of the bed where he belonged. Once he had him settled, he pulled up the covers and tucked him in. After patting Jim's cheek, he then exchanged his jeans and shirt for his sweats and climbed in next to his partner. He turned out the light, settled on his back, clasped his hands behind his head and gazed up at the skylight.

Jim - drunk. Again.

Jim didn't get drunk, so why now, why twice in two weeks?

Weren't things going well between them? Hell, it had only been a month, things couldn't have gone south yet, could they? He thought back on past relationships and realized that a month wouldn't be a record for him, but damn close.

Man, Jim was going to be miserable tomorrow.

It was hours before sleep finally took him.

Jim made his way slowly down the stairs, every step another nail in his coffin. He needed sunglasses.

"They're on the shelf there, to your right."

Jim tried to focus on the soft, disembodied voice but gave up and just asked, "What's on the shelf?"

"Your sunglasses."

"Oh." He fumbled, found them and slipped them on. Oh, yeah, definitely better. Someone took his hand and placed a cool glass of something into it. "What's this?"

"My own special hangover recipe, same one I gave you last week, so don't talk, don't argue, just drink - and drink all of it."

"Damn, I remember now. This crap tastes like-"

Raising his voice ever so slightly, enough to make Jim wince, Blair said, "I have the power to make your day miserable or bearable, so shut up and drink it - now."

Jim drank.

"That's better."

With gentle hands, Blair took him by the shoulder and pushed him gently to the couch. "Sit."

Jim sat.

"How's your skin?"

"On fire."

"Dials?"

"Can't get a handle on them - and could you talk a little softer?"

"Jim, I'm whispering now."

"Oh."

"We need to get your dials working so lean back and close your eyes."

Jim mock saluted and snapped out, "Yes, sir."

"Just do it - jerk."

Jim leaned back and closed his eyes.

"You have the dial in front of you?"

"Yeah."

"Now picture it on a bottle of Chivas Regal."

"Sandburg...."

"Maybe it was Wild Turkey?"

"You're asking for it."

"Today, you couldn't beat a baby if it had both hands tied behind its back."

"Dials?"

"Right, so concentrate and slowly start moving those levers down...."

"Oh, they're moving, all right. The numbers, the dials, all bouncing all over the place."

"Maybe you'd better go on the offensive," Blair suggested somewhat snidely.

Jim raised his left hand, middle finger waving in the air.

"Nice thought, but you're in no condition - you'd never survive."

Jim dropped his head into his hands and moaned.

Lips curling upward, Blair sat down, very carefully, and said, "Okay, Jim, let's give it another try. Lean back and close your eyes again."

Groaning, Jim nevertheless did as instructed.

"Now, what I need you to do is picture the dials as very thick and sluggish, as though they'd gained weight and can barely move."

One of Jim's eyebrows rose.

"Jim, just do it."

"Chief, that makes no sense."

"It did last time, so could you just do it?"

"But it sounds stupid."

Blair closed his eyes and counted to ten - slowly. Finally, in a voice that gave no hint of his frustration, Blair said, "Just try it."

Jim shrugged, winced at the movement and started picturing really fat dials....

After several seconds, Jim smiled blissfully as the dials got fatter and slower in his mind's eye and his symptoms began to abate.

Blair watched, nodded in satisfaction as Jim began to relax, and then slowly eased Jim's hand, the one holding the drink, up to Jim's lips. "Drink the rest now."

When Jim finished it with scrunched up face, Blair said, "Why don't you rest awhile now while I run some errands."

"Errands?"

"Just some last minute research and a trip to the library. A couple of books I ordered came in yesterday. Meanwhile, you take it easy, enjoy the peace and quiet and I'll be back in a couple of hours."

As he stood, Jim changed position and stretched out his legs. Blair dropped a kiss on the top of Jim's head and smiling, said, "You're a cute drunk, did you know that?"

"You're dead meat, Sandburg."

Laughing softly, Blair gathered up his jacket and keys, whispered good-bye and left, making sure the door closed gently behind him.

Blair sat at the small table in the rear of the library, three books open in front of him, his legal pad under his hand, a pen clenched between nervous fingers. He hadn't read a word or written a sentence.

He knew that in spite of his background in academia and science, he was still considered by many to be a "go with the flow" kind of guy, a fly by the seat of his pants, spontaneous, whacky guy, and, to a certain extent, he probably was. But only because constant movement and conversation tuned people out and kept eyes trained elsewhere rather than on him, just the way he liked it. Sure, they were defense mechanisms, but since meeting Jim, he'd lowered many of them, just as Jim had lowered a few for him. Against all the odds, they'd forged a friendship that many considered to be impossible to say the least. And yet - it had persevered, and now they'd taken it another step, the final one, but instead of security and a sense of being where he belonged, Blair found himself on a balancing beam with feet that were far too unsure of themselves.

And damn it, last night, Jim had come home drunk, and yes, he'd already said that, but it bore repeating because Jim just didn't do that. So why? Was the man feeling crowded?

Too much Sandburg now that Blair was sharing a bed as well as a home? And if so, what was the solution?

Simple.

He'd give Jim more privacy, like today. The last place Blair needed to be was the library. His research was complete and he had everything he needed to finish at home, but giving Jim time alone seemed paramount right now. So...he'd give Jim more days like these.

Many more. And maybe a few evenings as well.

Blair slipped into the loft, arms full of dinner, backpack hanging from his shoulder. Jim was sound asleep on the couch. He moved quietly to the kitchen, dropping his bag off on the way. At the sink, he set dinner down and started carefully pulling out the boxes of Italian food, then putting them in the oven to keep warm until Jim woke.

He trashed the bags then walked over to the couch and rested a hand gently against Jim's cheek. Satisfied that there was no fever and that the sleep was deep and natural, Blair walked into his old room and quickly changed into something more comfortable. Most of his clothes were still downstairs as they'd yet to really move anything, their relationship still so new. He slipped out of his jeans and into his sweat bottoms, pulled off the flannel shirt, left his undershirt on, and then carried the jeans into the bathroom and dumped them into the hamper. Walking back into the living room, he picked a book up off the coffee table, sat down in the chair and started reading.

By the time Jim finally began to stir, the sun was setting, giving the loft a lovely magenta glow. He opened bleary eyes and raised his head to find Blair smiling at him from the chair in the corner, a book open on his lap.

"Hey, if it ain't Sleeping Beauty, and no, I'm no prince."

Chuckling, Jim held out his arms and wheedled, "Then come on over here, my little frog, and let me kiss you and make you a prince."

"Fat chance, Ellison. You can kiss all you want, but this frog remains a frog. The most you can hope for is warts." Jim wiggled his fingers at Blair and, as he stood and dropped the book onto the chair, Jim said, "No warts for this guy - protected sex all the way. Now get your green, froggy ass over here." Chuckling, Blair lowered himself gently on top of Jim, rubbing gently but suggestively even as he targeted Jim's lips.

The rest of the weekend passed quietly for the two men and, somehow, Blair managed not to ask Jim about Friday night. On Sunday, while Jim watched a game, Blair tried to finish up his dissertation, but found he was still having difficulty with his conclusion. As he puzzled over the current paragraph, having given up on the previous one, Jim strolled over and placed his hands on Blair's shoulders and started to rub.

"Aw, man, that feels so good, don't stop."

As Jim's fingers encountered extremely stiff muscles, he said, "Shit, Chief, you're tense. What the hell are you working on?"

"Final chapter, same as Friday, same as last week."

Jim stopped and asked, "Final chapter? Your dissertation?"

"Yep. I told you last week that I'd set my own personal deadline, and tomorrow is it. But I'm stuck, and no," he quickly pulled the lid of the laptop down a bit, "you can't read it until I'm finished, remember?"

Jim fought for a neutral tone as his hands dropped from Blair's shoulders. "Right, of course. Want a beer?"

Blair waved his hand and bent back to his task. Jim took a bottle from the fridge, unscrewed the top and downed it in two swallows. He tossed the bottle and grabbed another one.

The dull buzz of the alarm, an arm across his chest, hair trailing over his face....

"Jim, come on, up and at 'em."

Jim squinted as Blair's hair brushed his nose and warm lips touched his as Blair whispered, "Morning" into his mouth. Jim brought up one hand and fingered soft, thick curls as he kissed him back. The kiss deepened as they shifted, explored and their erections bumped deliciously.

"I love mornings with you."

Blair lifted his head and, smiling down on Jim, answered, "Yeah, I kind of like them too. For one thing, you make a great bed warmer. We should have done this years ago."

Their voices were low and raspy with early morning huskiness, their hands slow and easy as each woke the body of the other.

A chance glimpse at the nightstand clock left Jim groaning and not in pleasure. "We're out of time, Chief."

"Nah, I set the alarm ahead."

Jim trailed small kisses up Blair's neck as he mumbled, "How much ahead?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"That kills the whole concept of slow and easy."

"We can do slow and easy - as long as it doesn't take longer than fifteen."

Jim chuckled, his hips thrusting up into Blair. "Slow and easy in fifteen, eh? That's what you said?"

Blair nodded, his hand sliding up and down Jim's bulging erection. His movement increased as Blair began to tongue fuck Jim's mouth in time with his hand.

Jim felt as though his body was leaving his current plane of existence, but then his orgasm hit, and he made a delicious crash back to Earth even as he yelled Blair's name.

"Man, you woke the neighbors again."

Smiling and with eyes still closed, Jim nodded happily. "They needed to get up anyway."

"Yeah, but to an alarm yelling 'Sandburg!'?"

"Hey, it beats a shrill briiiing."

"Not for old Mrs. Stubbs down in 203. Bet she jumped three feet out of bed."

"She's deaf, Chief. And contrary to popular belief, I do //not// wake the dead or bring sound to the deaf during orgasms."

"So you say."
Jim swatted Blair's rear as he finally opened his eyes and rolled out of bed, dumping his surprised bedmate rather unceremoniously back onto the mattress. "Care to join me in the shower? And are you coming to the station today?"

"No and - no. If I join you in the shower, you'll be late and, while I'd love to watch you explain to Simon why you were tardy for the fourth time in two weeks, well...."

"Good point. We'll save the shower for tonight."

Noticing his partner's unresolved condition, Jim happily started back for the bed as he asked, "But are you sure you can't make it today? Classes that heavy?"

"No, no classes. But this is my final day, my self-imposed deadline. Have to finish, but if I do, I'll be there, promise."

At Blair's words, Jim veered left, picked up his clothes and started downstairs. As he moved, he called back up, "I'll change in the bathroom, and don't worry about the station, we can get along without you today."

Frowning, Blair dropped his head onto the pillow, waited for the sound of the bathroom door closing, then looked down at himself - at his rigid and painful self. He joylessly and efficiently brought himself to completion, cleaned himself off and climbed out of bed.

By the time Jim was showered, dressed and ready to go, Blair had his laptop open and was back at work.

Blair stretched, raised his arms and flexed his fingers. He stood, twisted at the waist, then bent back until he heard his back pop. He'd been typing non-stop for the last three hours. He stepped away from the table, walked into the kitchen, pulled a cold water bottle from the fridge, unscrewed the top and took a large gulp. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax, his back against the counter, and contemplated his afternoon of work.

Technically - he was done. It was finished. Three years of his life, three years of Jim's life, in black and white.

Words.

Three years reduced to a Word document full of sentences and paragraphs.

His dissertation.

Completed.

All that remained was that final paragraph, and yes, he'd finally come up with one, but once he typed them, got them it jkn down, it would truly be over

So what then?

A question for the ages - or at least for Blair Sandburg and Jim Ellison.

What then?

Blair ambled back to the table, took his seat, placed his fingers on the keys and, as the shadows deepened into afternoon, Blair typed....

//"Humanity has long dug into its past in the hope that it will shed light on its future. Perhaps what this reveals is that it is the best of ourselves that will survive and lead us through the next millennium.

Watching our every step will be our tribal protectors -- the sentinels -- and their insight will further illuminate the spiritual connection of all things."//

He typed the last. Two. Words.

//"The End"//

He was so intent on his task that he never heard the front door open, missed entirely the fact that he was no longer alone...until his mother wrapped her arms around his neck from behind.

Funny how her light laughter and whispered, "Sweetheart," could sound like breaking glass.

Blair sat in his car, in the garage of the Cascade PD, fingers tapping a nervous tune on the steering wheel. It had been two days since he'd typed, "The End", two days since such an insignificant event like a visit from his mother could blossom into a nightmare or how one random act of Naomi's could shatter his world so completely. Of course, that random act had been given considerable help by a certain publisher named Sid Graham, a union jerk by the name of Jack Bartley and, last but not least, the return of an assassin who went by the handle of the Ice Man.

Random acts all conspiring to tell the world that Jim Ellison was a sentinel.

He thought back to the hours following his mother's appearance in the loft...to an excited, frenzied media surrounding him and Jim two days ago....

//"...that's got to be the sentinel...."// Frightening words yelled out by a reporter, a mike stuck in his face through the open window of the truck, and questions attacking them both like bullets, each one piercing them and tearing them apart.

//"Detective Ellison, can you tell us why you decided to reveal your abilities at this time, sir?"

"How is the publication of Mr. Sandburg's manuscript affecting your work with the police department?"//

Blair could still see Jim's stricken expression, could still hear his disbelieving words.

//"Chief, tell me you didn't?"//

He'd tried to explain, but another reporter told them both how "Your publisher sent your dissertation to the media" and Jim had shut down tight, and no amount of explanations on his part had gotten through, especially with the continued bombardment by the press.

//"Let's hear it from the sentinel himself..."

"There's nothing to hear, I've no idea what you're talking about! Now get that out of here and back off before someone loses a toe!"

"Jim, I can explain...."

"Chief, do not say anything right now...."//

Blair shut his eyes as the memory of Jim's expression floated before him, an expression of such hurt....

How many discussions had they attempted after the run-in with the press, with each encounter ripping into the fabric of their relationship, destroying the foundation upon which their friendship had been based?

He took in a deep, painful breath as the minutes after they'd parked, before joining Megan, Simon and Bartley, came back with crystal clear clarity....

//It was cold and windy as they walked the dock toward Bartley's building. Blair had his hands stuffed deep into his pockets as he tried to match Jim's purposeful stride. Since they'd pulled away from the curb and the reporters, Jim hadn't said a word and Blair was scared.

"You're not saying anything."

"There's nothing to say, Chief. It's all been said. Out, over, no going back. I just thought we had an agreement that I was going to read the thesis first." "We did. Look, I didn't do this."

"Right. You didn't write the book, and you didn't put my name all over it."

"Well, of course I did. But I was planning on changing your name and probably even mine to protect you. I...I just hadn't figured out a way to do that without compromising the documentation."

"You said this Sid was throwing a lot of money in your face, right?"

"Yeah."

"To just generate publicity for the sake of generating publicity without even having a deal because he wants to...what, toss it in your face like a dangling carrot..."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute, stop. Wha-What are you trying to say? That I was part of this from the start? How long have we known each other, that you think that's what I'm about?"

"Why didn't you say anything about this last night? It's just like a guilty conscience to me."

"I thought it was over. My mom was doing what she thought was right, she didn't know what it was about."

"How the hell did your mother get her hands on it in the first place? It was, what, just lying around like some kind of coffee table reading?"

"No, now look, don't you try to run some interrogation on me, you're not going to find some weak spot in me, all right? Look, I'm not a perp, I'm your-lov-friend."

"Chief, you gotta great opportunity here, a once-in-a-lifetime play, go for the brass ring, good luck, uh?"//

Right. Go for the brass ring. Good luck and don't let the door hit you on the way out.

Right.

Blair got out of the car and glanced over at the elevator. For the briefest of moments, he considered running, heading home, away, anything to avoid facing Major Crime and Jim. Instead, he took a deep breath, lifted his chin a bit and headed toward the elevator.

It wasn't as if he didn't have a clue how this was going to end.

"Hey, hey, Jim, when you going to start wearing tights and a cape?"

"Uh, I don't know, you got something I can borrow, Peter Pan?"

He walked purposefully toward his desk only to be faced by a smiling Joel Taggart.

"Come on, Jim, why don't you have a sense of humor about this whole thing?"

"Joel, just let it go...give it a rest, okay?"

"Why did you keep it from us? Why didn't you just tell us what's going on?"

"I...I've got some work to do, will you excuse me?"

"Okay, buddy, I get the picture."

As Joel slipped away, another voice intruded, one that was both a surprise and far from welcome.

"I hope you're not too busy for me, Jimmy."

He looked up and into the concerned eyes of his ex-wife, Carolyn Plummer and, next to her, Simon. He pushed back his chair and stood. "Carolyn, what are you doing here?"

"I figured you might need someone. I got the first media report last night, made my reservation, and here I am."

She stepped toward him and pulled him into a hug. After a moment, she pulled back without letting go and searched his face before finally asking, "You okay, Jim?"

"Fine, fine. You should have called me, let me know you were coming."

"She called me, Jim. Asked if I thought she could help. Figured she couldn't hurt." Simon smiled gently at Carolyn's back.

Before Jim could answer, a flurry of activity behind them captured their attention.

Blair rode up to the seventh floor, his heart hammering in his chest. He could feel his jaw clench and his hands move into fists. He could do this.

The elevator door slid open and he stepped out, then into the squad room only to be immediately hailed by Henri Brown.

"Hey, Sandburg, who's playing me in the Sentinel TV show? I know, Adam Sandler!"

"I hear," Joel straightened his tie, "Denzel is playing me."

Suddenly, Blair was surrounded by cops and detectives. He held up his hands and exclaimed, "Look guys, you know damn well there isn't going to be a television show, all right-"

He was interrupted by Rafe, who started chanting, "Nobel Prize," which was all the rest of his friends needed. They were soon bowing and chanting, "We're not worthy, we're not worthy, we're not worthy."

On the other side of the room, Blair could just see Carolyn as she tightened her arm around Jim's waist. He watched as she glanced upward, found only a shut-down Jim, expression one of solid granite.

At that moment, Simon stepped forward, hands raised. "All right everyone, listen up. The official line is that this is not true. There is absolutely no proof." He looked around the bullpen and added in a steely voice, "So why am I seeing people not working?"

The scurry to find something to do would have been funny - if the reason behind it weren't so serious. Blair remained where he was and felt the stab of loss and betrayal when Simon, shooting him an angry look, stepped protectively in front of Jim.

Blair's throat closed as his eyes stung. He turned and walked out.

"Are you really okay, Jim?"

"I'm fine, Caro."

They were seated in the small diner a few blocks from the station, away from prying eyes, flashing cameras, joking detectives - and Blair.

Carolyn had grabbed his arm the moment Sandburg scurried out of the bullpen like the rat he was, and used the moment to spirit Jim out the back way, dodging sneaky newsmen, getting him into her rental car, pushing his head down and then driving out of the garage.

Now safely ensconced in a back booth at the restaurant, a frown marring the boyish beauty of her face, she asked again, "Jim, this is me, your ex-wife. How. Are. You?"

"Tired, in a fog, and I can't believe this is happening. My worst nightmare come to life."

His worst nightmare? How does a man dream something that can't possibly be true... unless... Her eyes widened as, incredulous, she asked, "His dissertation was true?"

His eyes lifted from the straw he was nervously twisting. "I assumed that's why you came."

She shook her head in shock. "No, no, I - I figured, well, I never trusted him, you know that. Sure, he seemed harmless and all, but he seemed to be getting so much more out of his relationship with you than you were from him... Anyway, when I heard the report, I just naturally assumed that he'd made it all up for his own advancement - which he obviously did even if the whole sentinel thing is true...."

Her voice trailed off as she realized she was making no sense at all. Carolyn took a deep breath and tried again. "I guess I'm saying now is that whether it's true or not, he betrayed you, but naturally, when I first heard, I assumed he'd made it up."

Even as she spoke, the truth of what Jim was - began to sink in. Dear God, he was really was this - thing - this Sentinel.

A sentinel.

She sat back, the air forced from her lungs. "You never - you should have told me, Jim."

"I didn't want anyone to know - other than Simon. Had no choice there."

"You told Simon but not me, your ex-wife?"

Jim smiled wryly. "You know now."

"With the whole world I know. How could you not tell me, of all people?"

"I'm sorry." It was all he could say. It was all he'd ever been able to say to Caro.

She breathed out a gentle sigh and shook her head. "No, no, I'm sorry. This is not the time to go into this. Let's get you fed and figure out what to do next, okay?"

Blair drove aimlessly in a circle - aimless circles - ever widening aimless circles. His mother waited for him back at the loft but he couldn't face her right now. He knew he needed to go back to the station, they still had a case and a union boss to protect and Jim still needed his help even though he might not want it. But he still needed it. Blair stopped with the aimless and headed for the station.

Blair stood with Simon and Megan in front of Bartley's desk, going over the plan again while Jim stood at the window, Carolyn by his side. Judging by the easy acceptance of her presence by everyone, Blair figured he was the only one wondering why she'd been included. Bartley, looking smug, was obviously thrilled to find another good looking woman on the case, all of which gave Blair the sudden feeling that he was the odd one out, not Carolyn.

"More press," Jim suddenly said to no one in particular. "They're like vultures hoping for a kill so they can get that Pulitzer prize-winning photo."

"If Zoeller's out there, he's got a great cover, thanks to the media circus," Simon added.

Megan checked her watch and noted, "The show's due to start in five minutes."

Simon nodded and said to Jim, "You'd better get down there."

"On my way."

Jim and Carolyn moved toward the door even as Simon added, "Mr. Bartley, time to take your position."

Bartley took his seat just as Jim gave Carolyn a pat on the arm and, completely ignoring Blair, walked out.

Uncertain what to do, Blair found himself frozen in place until Simon barked out, "What are you doing? Go with him, Sandburg!"

Shrugging helplessly, he said, "He doesn't want me with him."

"I need you with him. Help him focus. Now go on."

Blair went, conscious of Carolyn's eyes boring bullet holes in his back.

Outside, the crowds were heavy and the noise almost too much for him, which meant Jim had to be suffering. Blair searched over the heads of the people milling about the platform where the speeches would be held and finally spotted the Jags cap and moved toward his partner.

Jim was searching the perimeter as Blair came up beside him. Noticing the frustrated frown signifying Jim's difficulty concentrating on the task of trying to spot Zoeller, Blair placed a hand on Jim's back and said softly, "All right, now you know he's not going to make it easy on you, so you should probably start by trying to isolate sounds-" "Chief, all right. I don't need your help. You don't have to quote me chapter and verse. Save that for your interviews."

Blair took a step back, feeling as shut out as it was possible to feel. He clamped his mouth shut, knowing damn well that Jim needed the chapter and the verse. He'd been overwhelmed by the sounds, lights, and movement. He needed grounding whether he liked it or not, and Blair could only hope that his touch and reminder had been enough.

Minutes later - all hell broke loose all around them.

The streets seemed peaceful after the mess at Bartley's office, Blair thought. At least Bartley was alive and in protective custody with the world believing him dead. Following the clean-up after the faked death of the union leader, he and Jim had headed home, with Jim sharing an intimate hug with Carolyn, who was staying at the Hyatt.

For the first time in a long time, Blair was glad he wasn't riding with his partner, that they were each in his own vehicle. He needed this peace and quiet, this time for himself. Not that he was doing anything with it. His mind seemed unable to figure it all out, to make sense of everything.

With a start, he realized he was home, just seconds behind Jim, who, even now, was climbing out of his truck. Blair parked, got out and, silently but together, he and Jim headed upstairs. This might have been the perfect time to really talk - except that his mother was upstairs, waiting. And judging by the smells coming from the loft, she had dinner ready.

This was not what he and Jim needed right now.

Jim shook his head and said politely, "I'm not really hungry. I'm just going upstairs, crash early. But thank you, Naomi."

Naomi, the bowl of hot soup still in her hand, shot a startled look at her son. Blair gave a small shake of his head and watched, heart heavy, as Jim started toward the stairs

"Please, Jim. You need to eat," Naomi tried again.

He turned, a hand raised. "I'm fine, really, just - tired." He looked pointedly at Blair before adding, "It's been a rough day."

"Jim, this is my fault, not Blair's. Please? Can't we talk? I mean, I should have known how special you were, that you had this gift. I always sensed this special energy about you. I'm so terribly sorry, and when I see the two of you...what it's doing to the two of you-"

"Naomi, I know you were just trying to help Blair-"

"You two listen to me, you can not let this tear apart your friendship-"

Jim turned from the stairs and walked to the window. Body language telling Blair that he was angry, Jim nevertheless said in a surprisingly gentle voice, "Things happen, Naomi. You know, people change and you just have to go with it. This whole Sentinel thing has gotten out of hand. I can't take this attention, it's not me. I just want to go back to the way things were."

That got Blair's attention. He moved toward his partner and said, his own voice soft and gentle, "Well, you can't just turn it off-"

Jim turned on Blair, his anger clearly now having a place to land. "Sure I can. There's got to be a way to make it go dormant, some meditation...."

He turned back to Naomi. "You could show me or I could find something that can tune it out or turn all this off...I'm just done with it...."

Hearing the desperation in Jim's voice, Blair reminded softly, "That's not who you are."

He knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say.

"Well, you tell me who I am then, because I have no idea," Jim's voice held more than a hint of sarcasm as he went on harshly, "At one point, I had a reputation of being a pretty decent cop. Now people look at me and they...they perceive me as some goofball comic book character." His voice rose as he went on. "People are calling my father, my brother, asking how they feel about living with a freak, now how would you like that, huh?"

With that, he moved toward the door, grabbed his coat, opened the door, and said, "If I ever want to go back to being a good cop and living a simple life, it ain't going to happen this way. Your research is done, Chief, now why don't you just let it go." With that, he was gone.

In the deepening shadows of the loft, Blair sensed that if he couldn't reach Jim now, it would be truly over. He gave his mother an apologetic look and said, "Mom, I have to go, need to try-"

"I know, dear. Go."

Jim took the stairs two at a time, his hurt and anger building. He couldn't have stayed there, not for another minute. He couldn't look at Blair's face, at Naomi's. The faces of his destruction. His vulnerability. His Achilles heel.

He drove like a maniac and somehow ended up back at the station, the one place he could still feel at home. He hoped. He somehow managed to avoid the press and make it upstairs, praying that Simon would be there, the one calm left in the storm that was his life. Once in the squad room, he was relieved to see the light on in Simon's office. He started for the door, but stopped just outside as Simon's voice, tightly controlled, revealed that he was on the phone with the Commissioner.

And it didn't sound good.

He waited, uncertain, but then Simon hung up and Jim felt that, at the very least, he owed Simon an apology. For the last twenty-four hours, he'd been selfish enough to forget that Simon was involved in this too, that what happened to him and Blair, was happening to Simon.

Jim knocked and, at Simon's gruff, "Enter," he walked in. "Simon, I...couldn't help but overhear...."

Looking twice his age, Simon sat back, swiped a hand over his face, and said, "Every case, Jim. They're going to review every single one of your cases."

"Captain, before we hear from the so-called review board, or the brass tells us to go pack our bags, I'd like to go back to things the way they were before Sandburg, when I worked - alone and without my senses."

Clearly stunned by what Jim was actually saying, Simon took his glasses off, pinched his nose, and asked in disbelief, "You talk with Blair about this, Jim?"

"It's not his call. This is my decision - his ride is over and I want to go back to being a cop, a regular cop. And with this sentinel thing hanging over us, it's always right there, and I'm tired of it. I want out."

Like Jim, Blair chose to enter via the back alley, thus also avoiding the press camped out in front of the station. He further chose to avoid seeing anyone by taking the stairs which brought him to Simon's private entrance. The door wasn't completely closed and he could just hear Simon and Jim. He started to step in when he heard Jim say, "It's not his call. This is my decision - his ride is over and I want to go back to being a cop, a regular cop. And with this sentinel thing hanging over us, it's always right there, and I'm tired of it. I want out."

Color draining from his face, Blair turned slowly and started back for the stairs, his only desire to get the hell out of there as fast as possible.

Except.

He and Jim needed to talk - no matter what else, they had to talk and talk now. Shoving down his hurt, he walked past Simon's door, rounded the corner and pushed through the front doors to the bullpen.

Simon listened to Jim's tirade as he sat back. This was wrong, very wrong, but how could he convince Jim when he wasn't even sure why it was wrong? He had to try though...that much he knew.

"Well, maybe that's for the best," he said as he got to his feet, picked up a photograph and walked toward Jim. "I got this picture back from the rally, by the way. Here, take a look." He set it down and pointed at Zoeller's face, caught by one of the many cameramen. "You were that close until the paparazzi got in your way."

Blair entered the bullpen, fully prepared to take Jim on when something slammed into the door next to him. In front of him, Megan, her sweater going red with blood, went down and then people were yelling and he was by her side, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his hand even as he heard someone yell, "Simon's down!"

The last several hours kept replaying in his brain no matter how hard he tried to shut it all off. The ambulance, paramedics working feverishly on both Megan and Simon, then the frantic drive to the hospital, the crowded waiting room, the long wait for news - any news - on their conditions, then giving blood and coming back up to hear words of recrimination from Carolyn as she held Jim - and then the doctors were telling them all that Megan and Simon would make it and Blair had been forced to watch as Carolyn took Jim with soft words and the promise of peace at her hotel....

The weight of it all was too heavy for him. Too heavy.

Blair walked slowly upstairs to the loft and let himself in. His mother was already in bed, having tried earlier to come to the hospital but, at Blair's words, had stayed here - waiting. With a sigh, he started for the stairs but stopped halfway.

No, he had no business sleeping upstairs tonight - maybe never again.

He turned, stripped as he walked toward the couch, leaving his clothes where they fell. He dropped down on the cushions and pulled the afghan over him. He didn't expect to actually fall asleep, and for that, he was grateful. If he closed his eyes, he'd only be haunted by the sight of Megan falling, of her blood and Simon's...and the sight of Jim's face at the hospital.

Rolling over onto his side, he also understood there'd be no forgiveness for him that night or any other.

In the wee small hours of the morning, as Simon Banks finally slipped into a natural healing sleep and Megan woke, hungry, as Naomi tossed and turned, and Jim slept in Carolyn's hotel room, Blair made his decision. He'd give Jim everything he'd asked for and in the only way he could.

Seemed such a simple thing, he thought. This decision. The right thing.

But damn, it hurt.

He was pretty certain his heart had just shattered into a million small pieces.

At seven, Blair tossed the afghan from his body and stumbled to the bathroom. He could hear his mother moving around in his old room, but couldn't bring himself to check in with her before hitting the shower.

He spent over thirty minutes cloistered in the shelter of the bathroom, letting the heat and steam of the shower cleanse him. The normal and mundane tasks of shaving, brushing his teeth and relieving himself actually lulled him into believing, for a few minutes anyway, that this was just another day.

By the time he'd exited, wearing Jim's robe, his mother had scrambled eggs dished onto a plate and was pouring orange juice and hot coffee.

"Come on, sweetie, sit down and eat."

He did as told but didn't actually eat anything. He had to tell his mother his plan.

He'd made his calls and now sat on the edge of the coffee table as his mother fretted over him. She understood his decision, so she said, but she didn't want him to do it.

It was early afternoon and, after checking with the hospital and discovering that Simon and Megan had both been moved to regular rooms, he felt even better about his plan. Joel had called two hours ago to tell him that Zoeller had discovered that Bartley was alive and had gone on a shooting spree at the station, only to end up dead - shot by Jim.

Blair had wanted to rush to Jim, to ensure that he was all right, but between his plans and Joel's words assuring him that, other than a few bruises, Jim was fine, Blair had remained at the loft.

"Will you ever forgive me for making a mess of things, sweetie?"

His mother's words brought him back from his thoughts. Glancing up from the papers in his hand, from the words he'd written for later, he caught the worry in her eyes. "It's okay, mom, we're all going to be fine now."

"Will you still love me, even with all this?"

God, how she'd been hurt by everything. He had to convince her that his decision was sound and that they'd see each other again. He rose and took her into his arms. "Mom, come on, don't be silly. Of course I do, always. Hey, we were all doing what we thought was right, right? Look at it this way, for a while, I had it all, the brass ring and everything, and now it's up to me to make sure Jim gets his brass ring, you know? He never wanted this and now I can fix it." He brushed some hair from her cheek and added, "You know that nothing happens in this universe randomly, so I know what I've got to do. Now why don't you go make your calls?"

She searched his face in the shadows of the afternoon sun and he made sure she could see only his resolve. Satisfied, she nodded and, after kissing his cheek, headed for the phone.

Blair used that moment to gaze around him.

His home.

For three years.

The longest time he'd stayed in one house.

His gaze came to rest on his luggage sitting by the door and he shook his head. How often had he seen just that picture? All the years growing up, the many times his mother would need to leave, to move, and here he was, once again moving on. Odd how even now, at almost thirty years of age, another move was indirectly a result of his mother. Did that mean he'd come full circle?

But damn, he'd give just about anything to be in Jim's arms one more time, to feel Jim's lips on his skin and hear words of tenderness wrap around him like a favorite blanket. To be able to pretend for just a few minutes that Jim loved, needed and wanted him.

Experiencing a strong need to see their bedroom one final time, he walked quickly upstairs. Standing by the bed, he picked up Jim's pillow, held it to his face and inhaled deeply. There, just - there - faint, but yes, Jim's scent. Still holding the pillow, he walked to the dresser and picked up a tossed polo shirt from the top of the hamper, along with one of Jim's Cascade PD tee shirts. He pulled the pillowcase off the pillow and stuffed both shirts into it. Dropping the pillow back on the bed, he hurried back downstairs. Once there, he shoved the pillow case with its treasures into his duffle bag.

He'd always wondered just how strong a man he was, how much willpower he really possessed, how much inner strength. He'd just never figured that this was how he'd find out.

His mother hung up the phone, obviously done, so he picked up his bags and said, "It's time, Mom."

She walked to his side, slid her arm around his waist and begged, "Please, let me come."

"No, it's better if you meet Charlie in Tampa, as planned. I'd just as soon not have an audience that included my mother, you know?"

"When will I...when will you-"

"Mom, when I'm settled, I'll call or email, okay?"

He could see the fear that she'd never hear from him again blossom in her eyes, confirmed with her next words.

"You promise, Blair? You promise?"

"I promise," he shamelessly lied. He fully intended on disappearing, certain that not only was this the best for Jim, but also for her.

Naomi picked up her shoulder bag, her luggage already in her rental, and, with a final glance at his home, Blair guided her out and shut the door on number 307, 852 Prospect Avenue, Cascade, Washington.

The paperwork was finished and the clean-up completed. The battle to bring Zoeller down had been messy, what with bullets zinging through the air, officers taking cover and Jim stalking the crazed man. Windows had been shattered as had the glass of the bullpen doors, and even the desks hadn't escaped the bullets. Fortunately, other than Zoeller, furniture and glass had been the only casualties.

Carolyn sat on the edge of his desk and, even without looking, he knew she was staring worriedly at him as he signed his report. Once he filed it, their plan was to head to the hospital. Her hand on his arm got his attention and he glanced up.

"Jim, is everything all right?"

"Fine, just fine."

"Last night, you were so quiet...I'm glad I could be here for you, but you really didn't say much and now...."

He was saved from answering by Rafe, who came out of the conference room where several detectives were watching the news. Voice dripping with sarcasm, he said, "Hey guys, Sandburg is on TV - he's giving some kind of press conference."

Puzzled, Carolyn and Jim quickly joined the others.

A podium surrounded by the press appeared on screen and Jim recognized the room - it was Chancellor Edwards' office at Rainier. A subdued Blair suddenly entered the picture and stepped up to the podium. His hair was tied back and he was wearing Jim's favorite flannel shirt as well as the leather jacket he'd given him for his last birthday. Everything in Blair's body language cried out in pain and Jim almost winced as, in a slightly tremulous voice, Blair addressed the press.

"Hi, uh, thank you all for coming, I just have a short speech prepared here."

Jim watched him swallow hard before looking up to face the cameras again.

"Um, in our media-informed culture, a scientist receives validation by having his or her work published, and, after years of research, there is, ah, great personal satisfaction when that goal is reached. However," Jim watched Blair bring both hands up to grip the podium, "my desire to impress my peers and the world at large drove me to an immoral and unethical act."

Blair's voice broke then, Jim felt his stomach plummet seven floors. He watched as Blair cleared his throat and went on - horribly on.

"My thesis, The Sentinel, is a...is a fraud. While my paper does quote ancient source materials, the documentation proving that James Ellison...."

Blair paused painfully, his eyes dropping down again but, after a shift, Jim watched as he took another breath and went on.

"...actually...possesses hyper senses is fraudulent. Looking back, I can say that it is a good piece of fiction." As if the most painful part was over, Blair's voice dropped low as he seemed to regain some degree of composure to finish.

"I apologize for this deception and my only hope is that I can be forgiven for the pain I've caused for those closest to me. Thank you."

The entire Major Crime crew watched in stunned amazement as the man who'd been an integral part of their lives for three years gathered his notes and quickly rushed by the eager and questioning reporters to leave the room.

All eyes turned to Jim who was rooted to the spot.

Blair pushed past everyone in his effort to beat the media, but Chancellor Edwards grabbed him as he tried to slide past her.

"You've embarrassed this University for the last time, I want your office cleared out by Friday."

He stopped long enough to bite back angrily, "Already done. And happily so."

Blair pulled away from her and, ten minutes later, was in his car and speeding out of Cascade, his heart, soul and life left behind.

Carolyn looked questioningly at her ex-husband and asked, "What the hell did that mean?"

He shook his head, his mind still too full of the press conference to think clearly. What the fuck had Blair just done?

Dear Mother of God.

He had to get to his partner. Pushing away from Carolyn's cloying hand, he picked up the phone and punched in Blair's cell. It rang twice and then switched to the automated answering system.

//"The party you are trying to reach is either out of the area or not connected at this time."//

Disappointed, Jim hung up and asked himself where Blair would go now.

The hospital, of course.

Blair wasn't at Cascade General, although the doctors told him that a Mr. Sandburg had called in to check on the condition of Captain Banks and Inspector Connor. With that information, and a bit more hopeful, Jim hurried to the payphone, tried the loft but got no answer, which meant no Naomi or Blair.

Icy fingers gripped Jim's heart as cold hands from a grave reached for him.

No Naomi, no Blair.

No Blair.

He started down the hallway, completely forgetting that Carolyn was next to him.

"Jim, what is it? What's wrong?"

He waved her off. "I have to go to the loft, need to get home."

Carolyn followed alongside and he was too worried to stop her from joining him.

Jim rushed up the stairs, shoved the key into the lock and pushed his way inside.

Nothing.

His home was quiet - still.

Thanks to the shuttered blinds, shadows governed the space, the small slices of sun giving the loft a soft sepia tone. Dust particles danced in the few rays of light, all signifying a frightening absence.

Jim paused just inside, Carolyn coming up hard behind him. He took a deep breath for courage before moving to the French doors. He pushed them open and peered inside.

Nothing.

Empty.

Void.

The closet door was open, revealing a few lonely coat hangers swaying listlessly in the slight stirring of air caused by Jim's movements. Even though he'd known what he'd find, he was still shocked as he took in the empty book case, showing only dusty outlines of where books had once been stacked. The desk was clutter free and neater than at any time in the last three years. Dresser drawers yawned at half mast, bare of belongings and empty of Blair.

He shot from the room, literally bumping Carolyn out of the way in his mad dash upstairs where, at the top, he skidded to a stop.

Blair's book and glasses, both of which had been sitting on the nightstand, were gone. His sleep sweats - gone. The made bed had been partially undone, his pillow, sans pillowcase, lying in the middle of the spread. He couldn't even begin to fathom why.

"Jim?" Carolyn whispered, her voice telegraphing her unease at his behavior.

She was just behind him, three steps back, gazing up at him, eyes wide and frightened.

"He's gone, Blair's gone."

She moved to his side, looked around the room and then back up at him. He could see it in her eyes - the truth finally understood. Her next words confirmed the fact that she finally got it.

"Dear God...you and...you and Sandburg."

Two Weeks Later -

Blair sat in the park and filled out yet another application form. Under name, he almost printed 'Blair Jacob Sandburg' but stopped in time. When leaving Cascade behind, he'd known he'd also have to leave behind his name. Too difficult to disappear otherwise, and if he were to be successful in protecting Jim, then he had to disappear completely.

Putting pen to paper again, he printed John Sanderson and thanked his lucky stars for a bookie cousin with connections resulting in a new driver's license and social security card. Of course, it was cash and carry now, but he still had obligations that had required a plan. In the end, it was decided that he'd send money to Robert on a monthly basis, and his cousin would make the payments on Blair's student loans and credit cards.

But other than that - Blair no longer existed.

He tucked some hair behind his ear and smiled self-consciously. There was hair but it was considerably shorter.

Blair finished the application, gathered up his stuff, and headed back across the street to the small curio shop. The bell tinkled overhead as he entered, the young woman behind the counter looking up and smiling.

"All finished, Mr. Sanderson?"

"Yes," he answered as he handed it to her. "How soon might I hear?"

She perused the application before saying, "My father will call you, but between you and me - everything looks good."

He smiled brightly. "Thank you, I really appreciate the time you took with me today. I look forward to hearing from your father, then." With that, he left and went to the small motel currently serving as his home.

The next morning, Harold Rothman, owner of the curio shop, did, indeed call and, as Blair put the phone down, he realized he was truly starting on a new chapter of his life.

He just wished he knew how this particular book was going to end.

Three months later

Working for Harold Rothman and his daughter Heidi, selling curios and antiques, was hardly challenging, but it paid the bills and kept him busy. He'd been working easily, living in a small, tidy apartment in Irvine, a bustling Orange County city in Southern California. Oddly enough, he was pretty sure he'd been here before, as a child, but really, who cared now? He had a job, the Volvo was running again, and every day that he managed to go five minutes without thinking about Jim Ellison was a major accomplishment.

Of course, his life wasn't perfect because, in all reality, being one of the walking dead was a bit of a hang-up, but other than that, life was cool. What constantly amazed him was the fact that he was a walking dead man, that the sun rose and set, that warmth and light followed the bright orb, that he shopped for frozen dinners, purchased gas, washed the car, interacted with other adults, managed to sound like an adult, grown-up and not at all spacey. And damn, he'd even caught himself smiling on occasion. Of course, the smiles had been necessary, required, and none of them had ever reached his eyes, let alone his heart, but still, he'd been surprised that his lips still knew how to make the move.

But the biggest stunner, the true shocker, was his heart. The damn thing was still beating. That old muscle just kept pumping and pumping and he couldn't help but wonder how the hell that was possible, being broken and all. But pump it did.

As the weeks slid by, he was pleased to see the infamous, fraudulent Blair Sandburg move from the headlines to page six, then page twelve and finally fade from view altogether. It hadn't taken long for the media to find something - and someone - else to hound. Unfortunately, Robert had suddenly become persona non grata in Cascade, thanks to his less than stellar 'connections' within the gambling community, but thank God, he'd still managed to keep Blair up-to-date on Simon and Megan and their health. Blair had known exactly when both had been returned to full duty and he'd been incredibly relieved. He doubted that he'd ever forget seeing her fall, or Simon's body.

At least it had all ended better than he'd deserved it to end. Just before leaving Cascade, Robert had called to let him know that Jim was working quietly and without a partner. He finally had the anonymity he so craved and the life he'd enjoyed before Blair. Jim could now claim that brass ring.

The knowledge that Jim was happy was all that made Blair's life bearable. The thought that Jim was where he belonged, that maybe, just maybe he'd find something with Carolyn again...find what he'd been unable to find with Blair, yeah, somehow that made it all worthwhile.

Maybe this was what was supposed to happen - maybe all the twists and turns in his road leading to Jim's freedom.

Which brought Blair back to himself.

He sat in his apartment, staring out over his small balcony, a cold glass of beer in hand as he pondered the universe, fate, destiny and love.

He'd been trying for weeks to figure out why he might be more than a bit...what would be a good word...unlovable? Was that the word? What was it inside of him that people found...that people couldn't... He took another sip of his beer and tried to marshal his thoughts.

Maybe it wasn't that people couldn't love him, maybe it was just that they couldn't love him for long, or remain up close and personal with him, not even his mother, who'd always been off on some new adventure. Of course, in all fairness, she'd taken him a good many times, but just as often had left him to the care of others.

Suddenly he grinned, a soft, bittersweet smile as the sun dipped below the horizon. At least he'd had a month with Jim. Thirty days in Jim's bed, four weeks of making love with him, day after day of waking with one of them spooned behind the other....

Blair let his head drift back against the chair as he put the glass down on the floor. His imagination - his own version of memory sense - brought back Jim's strong, slender hands roaming his body, knowing exactly where to stop and where to tease.

Blair moaned softly as Jim's breath seemed to flow over his face and his fingers tangling with Blair's curls. Blair grinned again as he imagined the slight moue at the sight of his short hair and now wiry curls, but then he lowered the zipper to his jeans and began a slow slide up and down his rigid dick. He closed his eyes, experienced the warmth and scent of Jim Ellison, of the older man's body against his, of muscles rippling under his fingers, of tremendous strength harnessed for Blair...and his hips bucked as he shot over his hand, Jim's name torn from his lips even as tears marked their way down his face.

Jim managed to get through six whole weeks believing that Blair's absence was for the best. Six weeks telling himself that he had what he wanted.

Six weeks before he cracked, before he blew up in the bullpen and then, once home at Simon's orders, tore the loft apart.

It had taken him six long, grueling weeks before he could admit to himself that he never wanted to go back to the time before Sandburg.

Now he sat in the middle of the wreckage that was his home, vulnerable and broken, a still-recovering Simon trying to help him as he confessed that he wanted to be a sentinel, that he needed Blair, loved Blair.

"Okay, okay, Jim, I get it. Come on, let me help you up."

"Shit, I fell," he muttered.

"Yeah, Jim, you fell. Now come on, let's put our feet under us and stand up."

"Us? There is no us, Simon. You didn't fall, I did."

"Well, I'm right down here with you, buddy. So get the fuck up."

Jim waved off Simon's arm and pushed himself off the floor. Swaying, he looked around his home, Simon, resting heavily on his cane, doing the same.

"You did a pretty good job of it, Jim," he finally said.

"I don't know about that," Jim answered. He pointed to the bookshelf. "I left that intact."

"Only because I arrived and you slipped."

"I could finish it now."

"Let's not but we'll say you did. It's going to take forever to get this place cleaned up as it is."

"I was thinking of leaving everything as it is - sort of a testament to my stupidity, you know?"

"A monument to idiocy, so to speak?"

"Yeah, exactly."

"Well, you are one stupid son of a bitch, no doubt about it."

Jim, feeling the loss again, said tonelessly, "He left me, Simon."

"Yes, he did. He left us."

Surprised, Jim turned to face his boss, one eyebrow rising in mock surprise. "Simon, last time I checked, you weren't the one sleeping with him - were you?"

Simon held up both hands and shook his head. "Hey, I liked the kid, but I draw the line at sleeping with him. Besides, can you actually see me," he pointed at his chest, then dropped his hand down to his hip, "with him - Mr. Shortstuff?"

"All right, we've now officially crossed over into weird."

"A fucking Sandburg zone without the Sandburg. We just can't escape it."

"Hey, I loved the Sandburg zone."

"Well, as long as we're confessing here - so did I. It was a good zone, you know? Full of life, energy, good will..."

"Useless information, strange unwritten codes of male behavior, unfathomable sexual practices..."

"Whoa, Ellison, you have now crossed the line into things Simon Banks doesn't want to know."

"Hell, Simon, I didn't mean he and I, I meant the stuff he knows, you know?"

"Jim, let's drop this whole part of the conversation and start cleaning up."

"Yes, sir."

It took them over two hours to sweep, mop, toss and straighten. When the last piece of broken whatever had been taken downstairs to the garbage, Simon made Jim sit down while he got a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

As Simon settled next to Jim, he handed him a glass, poured for both of them, and suggested, "I say we get stinking drunk." Jim glanced down at the amber liquid and whispered, "Tanked."

"I missed that. Say it again?"

Knowing that everything he was would be revealed in his red-rimmed eyes at that moment, Jim nevertheless lifted them to his friend and watched the surprise wash over Simon's face.

"Holy shit," Simon breathed out.

Nodding, Jim downed the glass and let Simon pour again as he said bitterly, "I guess I've got exactly what I wanted, eh, Simon? Life before Sandburg."

"He'll - come back. He will, Jim. He has to."

"No he won't. I told him just what I told you. That I wanted it over - wanted it gone. That all I desired was life as it was before and he did the only thing he could - he left, thereby giving me my wish."

"Jim, come on-"

"He's smart, Simon. Do you know how smart he is? How really, really smart he is? Do you have a clue?"

"Yeah, I've an idea."

"Then you know that he read between all my lines. He knew what I was saying and what I wasn't saying. He might as well have been standing outside your office when I told you."

"Hell, he probably was," Simon muttered into his drink.

"What the fuck do you mean by that?"

"It never registered until now, but Henri mentioned something about seeing Blair in the back hall before he came in the front doors that day," Simon said morosely.

"Jesus."

His turn to nod glumly, Simon downed his drink.

"Jesus, he heard me. He heard me, didn't he? Didn't he?"

Simon poured himself another as he said, "Probably. Be just like him to accidentally hear us, to walk away and then decide to talk to you anyway - so then he comes in the front and-" "Yeah - and."

Jim swiped a hand over his face as he stretched out his legs and let his body slump down into the cushions, totally lost in this new horror.

Simon twirled his glass between long, brown fingers and watched the liquid lap against the side of the glass, his own mood foul. Because Blair had heard not just Jim's words - but his own as well. Suddenly he said, "You know, Jim, I should never have said that maybe you were right about going back to the way it had been. The press may have interfered with your attempt to catch Zoeller, but without Blair and your senses, you'd have never spotted him to begin with. Hell, without your senses, we'd never have known we were fighting him. And he probably would have succeeded in his first attempt." He glanced at Jim over the rim of his glasses and added slyly, "Of course, I'm just rambling here."

When Jim failed to respond, Simon went on stubbornly. "Blair's smart, Jim. He's the smartest man I know, which means that after he calms down, he'll realize that you didn't mean any of what you said and he'll come back."

"Guess what? I did mean it. I meant every word of it when I said it. It wasn't anger or hurt or lashing out. I meant it."

"So what the hell are you saying? You don't mean it now but if he should return, you would?"

Jim waved the hand holding his drink, the action causing the liquid to slop over onto his thigh. He ignored it. "No, no, of course not. I mean that I meant it then, meant it at the moment, but I'll never mean it again."

Simon shook his head and held out the bottle. "Either we need to have more of this, or we've already had too much. Which is it?"

Looking down at his now damp leg, Jim held out his glass. "My jeans are thirsty."

Simon poured.

They both drank, then Jim asked, "You're still recovering, Simon. Should you be drinking?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Right."

The bottle was empty and Simon was peering into the small opening. "A'course, I'm only a sentinel here, but Simon, my friend, that bottle is empty."

Simon flicked out his tongue and licked the rim, then let the bottle drop to the floor. "Well fuck."

"Yep."

They both brought their glasses up to their eyes and, by upending them, peered inside, which naturally caused what little liquid remained to drop onto their respective faces. They both swiped up the precious liquid and licked it off their fingers.

Simon tilted his head and stared at his friend. "So we go after him?"

"Yep."

"This is fucking unbelievable!"

"Jim, calm down. You've little left in this place as it is. You can't afford to destroy anything else."

Jim collapsed like a deflated balloon as he sank into the chair. "How? How could he have disappeared? We're fucking detectives, we find criminals every fucking day but we can't find a short, long haired nerd? A guy who fucking drives an old green Volvo? We're talking Blair here."

"Exactly, Jim. Blair. He has friends all over the world, he could be anywhere."

Jim stood impatiently and began to pace. They'd been searching for over a week with no success and Jim was nearing the end of his rope. "Had - he had friends. You heard the assholes. We've interviewed how many? People Blair helped, befriended, taught, coached, tutored, and they turned against him. They didn't give a flying fuck about happened to him."

"Fair weather friends, Jim. Not like us," Simon remarked dryly.

Simon's sarcasm wasn't lost on Jim, who said, "You're not helping. Now, how the hell has he been able to travel without using his cards?"

For several seconds both men were silent, then, almost in unison, they turned, faced each other, and said, "Robert!"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"Simon, calm down."

Banks threw his cane across the room and Jim went after it, picked it up and carried it back to his friend.

"Who knew, Jim? Who knew?"

"So Robert has gone underground. Okay, another dead end, but we're not finished. We have other avenues to explore."

Simon sat down with a sigh. "What other avenues? Uh, Jim? What other avenues?"

"I don't...know. But damn it, we're detectives."

"Carolyn come up with anything?"

Jim shook his head, remembering the call he'd made to his ex-wife. After Carolyn had figured out about Blair and the exact nature of his relationship with him, she'd gone very silent and - finally - left him alone. Two days later, she'd caught a plane home and, when he'd called a few days ago, she'd been less than thrilled to hear from him and even less so when he'd asked for her help. But she'd tried and, unfortunately, had come up just as empty-handed as they had.

"Same as us - meaning zip."

"Damn."

Irvine, California

The Word document looked way too blank, Blair thought. It stared back at him, almost accusingly. He glanced down at the keyboard, took a deep breath, placed his fingers in place, thought of Jim...and the words started flowing.

Six hours later, with cramped fingers, he stopped. Rubbing his right hand, he sat back and started to read what it had taken him six hours to create....

//He wasn't an investigator and he wasn't a private eye. He wasn't a private dick either. A dick maybe, but not a private one. What he was, was a Private Detective. He detected in private, without the badge, and left the investigating to the suits and cops.

Joe Elliot tossed the red ball against his office wall, deftly caught it as it bounded back, then repeated the action. On the other side of the glass door sat his temp, a scrawny woman with a bad temper and the best filed nails in the building. Joe was surprised that she didn't smack the gum she chewed incessantly. The phone rang...and rang...and rang. He sat up, catching the ball in the process. The phone rang a fourth time and still the bitch in the outer office ignored it. He let it ring twice more before picking it up himself.

"Elliot Detective Agency."

"Joe, I've got something for you."

"Hey, how'd ya know it was me?" he asked, grinning.

"Well, your voice was my first clue, and of course, if you're there, you're the one who always answers because you get the worst temps possible, so that was my second clue."

"But I didn't use my regular voice," he said, almost whining.

"Yes you did."

"No, I was in disguise," he stubbornly insisted.

"And you call yourself a detective?"

"You gonna tell me what you've got?" he finally asked his old friend, Lieutenant Stan Simmons of the LAPD.

"A case that's right up your alley."

"You coming here, or do I-"

"You show up at the station and the captain will have my ass. It's almost lunch, I'll be there in twenty."

"The usual?"

"Nah, I'll try something different this time. Instead of the Pastrami on rye with yellow mustard, I want Dijon."

"A true gourmand. One or two pickles?"

"I'm on a diet - one."

"See you in twenty."

He hung up smiling, but one look at the silhouette of the broad just outside his office and the grin faded. It was time to dump another temp. He got up and walked into the outer office. Well, damn, the Bitch was filing her nails. Joe picked up the receiver and held it in front of her face. "In detective parlance we call this the Ameche. When the Ameche rings, the twisted temp of a secretary picks it up and says, 'Elliot Detective Agency, may I help you?'"

Totally unmoved by his words, she simply stared up at him even as she continued to file her nails.

Thinking that she was missing the movie reference, he added patiently, "Don Ameche? He played Alexander Graham Bell in the movie? Henry Fonda played his assistant? Hello?"

She opened her mouth, popped her gum and said, "You should be made aware that it's the year 2001 and no one calls it the Ameche anymore. In fact, I sincerely doubt that anyone ever called it the Ameche...except in very bad detective novels."

His pale blue eyes narrowed fractionally. Wasn't he lucky? He'd managed to hire a smartass Bitch. He pointed to the black purse hanging from her chair. "That yours?"

She nodded.

"Take it and go. And do us both a favor and never darken this doorstep again."

She cocked her head. "Do you really catch bad guys? Because I've got to tell you, with dialogue like that, I can only picture them laughing their asses off."

All right - he was starting to like the Bitch. Maybe he should rethink the firing. "I'm thinking - you learn to answer the phone and I'll keep you."

She looked at the phone, still in his hand, then up at the handsome face with its square jaw, chiseled features, icy pale blue eyes, and of course, there was that long, lean body....

"I'm thinking - you buy me lunch and I'll stay."

He put the phone down. "Deal."

"You going to Gebhart's?"

"Yes."

"I'll take a Ruben, extra sauerkraut, potato salad and two pickles. Oh, and a Diet Coke."

He started for the door, then turned back and, in a resigned voice, said, "I'm expecting Lieutenant Simmons. You'll ignore him when he arrives, won't you?"

"Naturally."
He shook his head. Naturally. Isn't that what all temps did?

Joe Elliot, private detective, headed out to the deli.//

Blair shifted in his seat, took a sip of coffee and, as the sun set, continued to read about his creation, Joe Elliot, Private Detective.

The days stretched out and overlapped, each indistinguishable from the other. His nine- to-five hours at the curio shop were becoming a painful blur meant only to be endured, while his interactions with the human race were confined to selling and answering questions at the store. At home, while he had a phone, he never answered it when it rang, letting the answering machine do his work for him. Then, once a week, he'd erase everything unless one of the messages happened to be from his boss.

The only truly good moments happened when he was at home and buried deeply in the writing of his book - only then did he come to life. It took him over a month to complete his detective novel, a feat he suspected was unusual. But damn, once he entered Joe's world, the words came so easily. Unfortunately, like all good things, he'd finally reached the conclusion of the story.

Now he sat with his laptop on his legs, fingers poised over the keys, ready to type The End - but he couldn't do it. He'd typed those two words once before and dearly wished he hadn't.

Suddenly inspiration struck and he typed, -30- instead.

Feeling extremely accomplished, he just sat there, grinning at the screen. Then he remembered - he didn't have a title.

Well, fuck.

Okay, so he'd worry about that later. Right now, he needed to think about what to do with it. As he stared at the screen and the blinking cursor next to the -30-, he thought of Jim and how the novel held so much of him in every word. Somehow, it seemed fitting that the world should know how great Jim was - even though they wouldn't know it was Jim.

With that, he went to his search engine and started looking for publishing houses. He was hardly new to being published, but fiction was a different breed altogether, so he surfed several legitimate sites that offered good advice and tips on getting something in the front door of a publishing house.

After a few hours, he had a nice list of possible publishers and another list of steps that he'd need to follow for submission to each. Of course, he could have sent it directly to Sid, after all, the guy would have to feel some obligation to publish, but gosh, poor Sid had been fired.

Oh, dear.

Wry smile in place, Blair opted for Intrigue Presses for his first submission - and probable first, but not last, rejection.

Thanking God it was Sunday, because the idea of an entire weekend stretched out in front of him with no Joe Elliot to immerse himself in really sucked. He got up, stretched, and remembered a post office on his way to the antique store. Okay, so he'd mail it tomorrow.

Three weeks later-

Blair walked into his apartment, tossed his keys onto the dining room table and took his mail over to the couch. Sitting down, he started going through the circulars and magazines...and then he spotted it.

One envelope.

One thick envelope from Intrigue Presses.

Rejections didn't usually come in thick white envelopes.

With shaking fingers, he opened it...and his life took a decidedly surreal turn towards weirdsville.

His book had been accepted.

Blair Sandburg, he of the fraudulent dissertation, was about to be published.

Blair sat in the early morning light, in the same spot he'd been in the night before when he'd opened his mail. The paper informing him that Intrigue Presses was definitely interested in publishing his book sat on his leg where he'd left it. He'd barely moved an inch since opening it, his only thoughts centered around something he should have thought of before mailing his manuscript off to Intrigue.

Protecting Jim.

And in order to do that - he had to protect his identity - but how?

He needed help and, dredging up a name from his past, he had, he hoped, his answer. Lori Fielding.

His good old buddy who was now happily settled in Los Angeles and, miracle of miracles, working for a law firm that specialized in entertainment law.

Answer at hand, he finally moved, albeit stiffly, into his room. He picked up his address book from the table by his bed and flipped through to the 'F's' - and yep, there she was, Lori Fielding, 23891 West Poplar, Los Angeles, California, 818-828-3891.

He checked his watch and nodded in satisfaction. She'd be asleep, but home. He quickly dialed and, after four rings....

//"'lo?"//

"Lori?"

//"...'es."//

"Lori, it's me, Blair."

He could hear a sharp intake of breath, than a rustling sound and finally, all traces of sleep gone, Lori's voice again.

//"Blair? My Blair? Holy smokes!"//

"Hello to you too," he said with a grin.

//"My God, how the fuck are you? And do you know what time it is, fer crissakes?"//

"Yes, it's six, but I would have thought you'd have a clock right next to the bed."

//"You shit. Always the smartass. And to what do I owe the pleasure of being awakened from a sound sleep, in the middle of a highly erotic dream, by someone I haven't heard from in over two years?"//

"I hate to admit it, but...it's business, Lori. Are you still practicing?"

//"Of course, and still with Pierce-Waterman."//

"Then you're just what I need. I'm about to be published and I need help."

//"Oh, my God!"//

"Can you help me?" Blair found his grin widening.

//"Help you, of course I can help you, you idiot. But what do you need? Do you have an agent yet? Why a lawyer already?"// He sat down on the edge of his bed and stared at a photo on the nightstand, the photo of Jim at the Detective of the Year awards banquet. "I - I think this would be better said in person, Lori," he finally answered.

//"Okay, hang on a mo, all right?"//

"Sure, no problem." He could hear rustling again, then the phone was dropped unceremoniously onto a hard surface. He waited patiently and, two minutes later, she was back on the line.

//"I have an opening today if you can you get to my office by ten."//

"No problem. I have an understanding boss."

//"Good, you're now my ten o'clock. We're in Century City. Got a pencil handy?"//

He didn't, but he had a good memory. "Shoot."

//"800 Avenue of the Stars, The Peterman Building. I'm on the seventh floor - suite #702. And Blair, I can't wait to see you again. We'll have lunch, all right?"//

"Deal. But Lori, don't use my name. Use John Sanderson."

There was the expected pause, then laughter.

//"Only you, honey, only you. All right, John Sanderson it is. See you at ten."//

Blair hung up after their goodbyes and then called his boss who, as expected, was very understanding. After all, in all the months Blair had worked for Rothman's, he hadn't missed so much as an hour of work.

The drive to Los Angeles was proving more difficult than Blair could have anticipated. Oh, not the navigational aspects of it, but the actual doing it. He'd been leading a life that involved getting up, going to work and going home again, with only occasional side trips to a market, and that was it. For months. So, by the time he exited the San Diego freeway onto Santa Monica Boulevard, he was a nervous wreck.

He drove down the street, checked out the billboards, watched, amazed, at the number of Rolls-Royces that drove past him. He also noted that almost everyone driving was talking on a cell phone. Figured.

He couldn't believe the amount of foot traffic in a city known for its vehicular traffic, not to mention the weird outfits worn by the pedestrians, but his eyes really bugged out when he passed an outdoor mall that appeared to have a large yellow submarine protruding from its side.

He felt like Axel Foley in Beverly Hills Cop.

Blair eventually spotted Avenue of the Stars and made a right turn onto it. He quickly found the correct building, drove down into the garage, took a parking ticket from the automatic dispenser and, after several passes, finally found a parking spot.

For several minutes he sat in his car and just breathed.

In - out, in - out.

Mantra time.

He needed to calm down, focus and just - do it. Finally feeling secure enough, he climbed out of the car, locked it and walked to the elevator. He could do this.

He couldn't do this.

His breathing started to hitch, sweat broke out over his brow and upper lip....

Blair turned away from the elevator and started walking back to his car.

Maybe - she'd come to him?

Fuck.

What the hell was he turning into?

Blair stopped, closed his eyes and took a deep, centering breath. He could trust Lori, she'd been his best friend, his lover for over eight months. They'd shared some of the best sex he'd ever had - until Jim - and they'd loved one another, right?

He could trust her.

Trust this.

He turned back.

"John Sanderson. I've a ten o'clock with Miss Fielding."

"Oh, yes, of course. Have a seat, Mr. Sanderson, she'll be right with you." Lori had a male assistant. Good for her. As he took a seat in the corner, Blair had to bite back a smile because Lori also had an assistant who was making eyes at him. Shaking his head in humor, Blair picked up a magazine in order to ignore the 'can I have you for dinner' looks that continued to flow his way.

Five minutes later, the door to Lori's office swung open and she was there, arms held out in welcome. He got quickly to his feet and, as they hugged, the years between them melted away.

She finally pulled him inside and, after closing the door, said, "My God, Blair, you look...."

She paused in order to really look, and finished, "Shitty. You look shitty."

Chuckling, he said, "Thanks. Knew I could count on you for total acceptance and support."

"But you do. You really do. I mean, " she stood back and surveyed him from top to bottom, "I love the hair, and you look scrumptious, but Blair, there's something-"

"You, on the other hand," he interrupted, "haven't changed one bit. You're as beautiful as ever."

"That's supposed to stop me, isn't it? Redirect me? Get real. This is Lori, the person who knows you inside-out, now what the hell is wrong?"

He sighed. He should never have turned back. "Come on, Lori. You read."

She tilted her head and regarded him steadily. "The dissertation mess?"

"I like that. The 'dissertation mess'."

Lori took his hand and led him to a leather couch against the far wall. She pushed him down and took her place beside him. "Look, I know you and the Blair Sandburg I know does not do fraud. So, no, I didn't believe any of it, all right?"

Blair frowned. "Then what," he waggled his head, "do you believe?"

"That someone opened Pandora's Box and you had to put it all back inside. Somehow."

"Succinctly put, but...I opened the box, so putting it all back inside was the least I could do."

She shrugged. "But there's more, right?" "Nope. That's it. A lot of people were hurt, both mentally and physically, because of me, so I have to make sure that Blair Sandburg can't hurt them again. Hence the John Sanderson thing, and the reason I'm here."

She sat back. "Okay, I got that. So what's the deal here, then? What do you want from me?"

"Advice? Help? I can't have any face-to-face meetings, no photo on dust jackets, no real name, not even my new name, just a pseudonym - a mystery man, if you will."

"We can do that, no problem. I'll act as the middle person. First thing we need to do, though, is get you an agent. Did you bring all the paperwork?"

He nodded, took the envelope from Intrigue Presses out of his pocket and handed it over.

Lori took everything out and, for a few moments, all was quiet as she read. Finally she put the documents down and smiled. "This is good, Blair, very good, but then, I'd expect no less from Intrigue. I think we can work this out very nicely but, as I said, you need an agent. Now, I just happen to know several, but I think there's one, he's great, who'd be perfect for you. I'll contact him, explain the nature of my eccentric," she made quote marks in the air, "client and take care of everything. For your part, you'll need to buy a fax as soon as possible, but other than that - we're set. I'll have my assistant draw up the contract while we're at lunch and you can sign when we get back."

"Sounds good."

Blair sat in Lori's office for almost an hour while her assistant did his part and Lori fast-talked with the man who would be Blair's agent, Spenser Winthrop. While she spun her yarns, explained her eccentric client, cajoled and entreated, Blair flipped through magazine after magazine, his nervousness increasing as his need to get home lent him an almost frenetic energy.

Finally, Lori hung up, a satisfied grin on her face. "You have yourself an agent, Blair. It wasn't easy, as you heard, but he'll take you under your conditions." She sat forward, rested her arms on the desk, and asked, "So - what do you feel like for lunch? Seafood? Mexican? Or we could go next door to the Century City mall and eat in the food court, up to you."

"Food court? Mmm, maybe not."

Seeing his discomfort, she nodded in understanding. "I know just the place." She picked up the phone. "Ken, would you order from Yee's for me? The usual, but for two. Great. Yeah, speedy delivery." She hung up the phone and grinned. "See? Privacy. We'll eat here, catch up on our lives and then you sign and we're set." Blair finally allowed himself to relax. Lori really did understand.

Dipping into the aromatic shrimp and spearing two succulent shellfish with her chopsticks, Lori quizzed him about the book and the identity of its author. "Have you figured out the pseudonym yet?"

"Yeah, yeah, I have. Jake Sands."

"Ooh, I like. Tough, ex-cop-sounding. Very good. I'll get that on all the docs. And by the way," she pointed at his plate with her chopstick, "you're not eating, you're shuffling."

"I'm eating." To prove his point, he clicked on a piece of pepper and popped it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. "See?"

Frustrated expression on her face, she asked, "Blair, come on. Talk to me."

"About?"

"Blair, Blair, Blair...."

"Lori, Lori, Lori...."

"In the old days, this is when we'd hit the sack."

"True."

She reached over and gently pushed some hair behind Blair's ear. "But not anymore?" she asked, a trace of wistfulness in her throaty voice.

"No, not anymore."

"I've missed you."

Blair frowned at her confession because, in all honesty, in the three years he'd been with Jim, he'd never given her a thought. Damn selfish of him, actually. She'd been his best friend at Rainier, his shoulder to cry on, his bedmate and joke partner and yet, he'd never picked up the phone to share Jim with her, to share the multitude of changes in his life that had come with his association with Jim. But he was wise enough not to tell her any of that now, not to hurt her.

"Missed you too."

She favored him with a small, Mona Lisa smile, regret clearly written in her eyes, but, a moment later, she was the consummate professional. "Okay, so we're set. Hang on while I see if Wonderman out there has everything ready."

Wonderman did and, after Blair read, he signed, then read some more, and signed again, and again, and again. When he was done - he realized he was truly on his way to being published.

When Blair finally got home, the first thing he did was to call his boss and give notice, after which he collapsed on the couch and found himself grinning like an idiot.

His last two weeks at the shop passed in a whirl of work, strange emails and stranger faxes, thanks to his new agent. On his last day at the curio shop, the Rothmans said goodbye with a going-away cake and, if that weren't enough, they gave him a small gift, which he was ordered not to open until he got home. At the end of the day, after exchanging hugs and kisses and promises to 'stay in touch', he walked out the door for the last time.

Once outside, he rushed to his car and drove quickly home. When he entered his apartment and closed the door, something strange happened. It was as if being published, having a contract and the promise of money in the bank, set him free to die. Not a death in the conventional sense, not even the kind of death he'd been living with since leaving Cascade, no, this was the death of sharing life with others. Of being a part of life outside his home.

He felt safe as he stood in his small apartment. Safe and no longer any kind of threat to Jim.

It felt good.

Days and weeks later, as he dealt with mounds of paperwork that arrived via either email, faxes or delivery men, worked on revisions, as his contract with Intrigue was pounded out (he wanted approval for marketing and cover art), it continued to feel good. He didn't need to leave his home for any reason now, his total and complete retreat from the outside world made incredibly easy thanks to the internet. He soon found that there was nothing a person could want or need that could not be ordered online.

Two grocery chains, Albertsons and Vons, both had home deliveries and he used them based on delivery schedules. For movies and even popcorn, he discovered Kosmo.com, and for books and other delights, there was Amazon. For nights when cooking was the last thing he wanted to do, Restaurants on the Run, an online business that specialized in delivering neighborhood restaurant food to your door, was only a click away.

Of course, he had to admit several weeks later that he wasn't totally without some kind of interaction with others. After all, he talked with Lori by phone at least three times a week; she even visited, sharing a meal and a DVD on occasion. He also conversed with his agent by phone. But otherwise, okay, it was just him, his computer, television and CD player.

In his down time, the few hours when 'being published' wasn't his main focus, he read, watched movies or surfed the internet to the sounds of his favorite music. The problem was - none of it felt the same. His enjoyment of music seemed fuzzy, as if he might be under water and thus unable to hear it clearly. It was as if he'd stopped really experiencing even his small pleasures.

The scary part, he realized several weeks into his closed off life, was that he didn't care, didn't miss any of it. Did that mean he'd stopped feeling altogether? No, that couldn't be accurate because he cared how he looked, he shaved each day, bathed, fed himself, brushed his teeth and flossed after every meal. Surely that was a good sign? A sign that he felt something, even if only pride in being clean and fed.

He'd stopped dreaming too, but that part was good. He'd also - mostly - stopped thinking about Jim and Simon and Megan and his mother. He could go days without thinking about them. He could watch a sunset from his balcony (and what was it with him and balconies, anyway?) and not think of Cascade or Jim or how the glow of the setting sun would fill the loft and turn it soft and warm and hazy. Sunrises were just that - the sun rising - and he saw it most mornings and thought nothing but how strange it was that he could be up all night and not care or feel tired and that the reason for being up had nothing to do with a case or school. That it was just...because.

Blair took a bite of toast and turned the page of the book he was currently reading. Dirk Pitt was in another jam but Blair doubted there'd be a problem getting out of it. Thinking jam might go well with the rest of his toast, he was about to get up and get it from the fridge when the doorbell rang. Since that was a rare thing, and it was only eight-thirty in the morning, he considered not answering, but then remembered Lori mentioning something about cover art and how she'd have it delivered for his initials.

He got up, answered the door, and sure enough, it was some guy from Speedy Flyers Courier Service. He signed on the dotted line and, in return, received a large, flat brown envelope. The man waited and, realizing that he was expected to look and either approve or not, and since he was kind of anxious to see the cover, to see how Intrigue Presses art department had interpreted his vision, he quickly opened it and slid the artwork out.

The 8x10 glossy showed a lonely street after dark, poorly illuminated by a street lamp. To the right, peering from an alley, two golden cat eyes could be seen. To the left, superimposed over the street scene, was the profile of a man. Half in shadow, half illuminated by the street lamp, the strong, square jaw, compressed lips and one pale blue eye dominated the cover. Across the top of the artwork the title had been superimposed; "Track of the Cat." In the bottom right hand corner, in pale yellow, it said, "By Jake Sands."

Blair felt something shift in his chest as he ran his finger over the jaw - Jim's jaw. He could almost feel the stubble....

No one would see that jaw and think of Jim.

No one but him.

He signed his approval, kept the copy they'd included for him, and, after the young man left, Blair forgot all about jam or toast or Dirk Pitt as he sat down at his desk, in front of his computer, and began his second novel.

Living in the world of Joe Elliot was now a necessity; the only living Blair could do.

Simon Banks stared at the paperwork in front of him. It was a report from an old friend, a private investigator, and told him what he'd known it would - that Blair Sandburg had disappeared, completely and thoroughly.

He stared out through the blinds of his office at Jim, debated not telling him, not reminding him about the investigator. On the other hand, this news would come as no surprise. After all, if two seasoned detectives, one a sentinel, couldn't find Blair, how the hell could they have expected a private detective to succeed?

So far, Jim had been handling the loss of Blair pretty well, all things considered. The loft seemed safe from further destruction, and Simon was beginning to believe Jim would survive. He was no longer barking at people, even smiled now and then. He was working hard, playing well with others and never ran with scissors. Of course, if anyone really looked, they'd see the loss, the loneliness in his eyes, but Jim was strong and was pushing through.

Simon got to his feet and, resigned to the task, picked up the report and walked to the door. He made eye contact with Jim, held up the folder and shook his head.

Jim gave him an imperceptible nod before returning to his work.

Simon was right - no surprise. But there should have been hope, shouldn't there?

He stayed where he was, watching his team. It had been months now and Major Crime seemed to be back to normal, to the casual observer, anyway. But to Simon...he knew how much Henri missed having someone to call "Hairboy," knew how very much Megan needed Blair, the one person who was always in her corner, even when balancing it with Jim's. Rafe was still carrying around the guilt surrounding his treatment of Blair, but it was a quiet, mostly hidden guilt now. For Joel...well, Joel was a different story. Simon was one of the few people who'd come to understand how much Joel loved Blair, loved him like the son he'd never had.

And of course, there was him.

Sandburg's disappearance had a greater impact on him than he could ever have guessed. While his friendship with Jim had grown stronger in their mutual attempts to find Blair, his own personal and professional life seemed far emptier than he'd have imagined.

The absence of the dynamo that had been Blair left a hole in his heart. Sometimes, when he was at home, alone and in the dark, he could admit that it felt as it would have if Blair had died that day at Rainier - that day at the fountain.

That piece of knowledge never failed to surprise the hell out of him because, contrary to popular belief, knowing a man was alive somewhere, versus dead, did nothing to assuage the sense of loss. Especially when you didn't know if the person you were missing was still alive. Hell, for all any of them knew, Blair was...he could have...there could have been an accident...he could have...and all alone, without them...and they wouldn't //know//.

No...just no. Simon refused to believe anything but that Blair was alive.

And they were surviving, weren't they?

Yes.

So why didn't surviving feel better?

Closure, that's why.

None of them had it. Words had been said that shouldn't have been, assumptions made that had wounded, and a sacrifice given that had gone without words of thanks. A man had given up all, and yet, the recipients of the gift had been unable to show their appreciation.

While their lives were continuing, albeit a bit more quietly than any of them would have preferred, what was happening to the one who'd sacrificed?

Simon returned to his desk and, as he sat back down, sent up a small prayer for the man who'd lied his way into his life all those years ago. Prayed that he was safe, that he was alive.

Three weeks later-

The sirens cut through the night air as Cascade police cars careened around corners to pull up in front of the small apartment building on the corner of Lewis Avenue and Seventeenth Street. People from the neighborhood had already gathered in front and were now milling about the sidewalks, some in work clothes, most in robes and slippers.

Simon parked at an odd angle, got out and, after flashing his badge, hurried inside. Jim was waiting in the lobby. Joining him, Simon asked, "What do we know?"

"A single gunshot heard on the fourth floor as reported by a Mrs. Perkins. She stated that it was followed almost immediately by someone screaming. She thinks the shot came from apartment 432."

"We have men up there now, I assume?"

Jim nodded. "Yes, sir. Connor is conducting a more in-depth interview of Mrs. Perkins and I'm ready to go up myself. Everyone is in position."

Simon nodded, then one eyebrow rose in question as he asked the silent question, "How are your senses tonight?"

"They're online, Simon."

"You sure? It's safe?"

Jim shrugged. "All I can do is go up and see what I can do."

Simon waylaid a passing SWAT officer and ordered him to remove his vest. As the man did as told, Simon took off his coat and, when the Kevlar vest was handed to him, slipped it on. With a look that brooked no argument, he said, "I'm going with you."

Resigned, Jim nodded and walked over to the elevator. They took it up to the fourth floor and exited. Apartment 432 was a corner apartment, two officers stationed on both sides of the door, guns drawn and ready. More officers were spread down the hallway in both directions and at the stairway.

As they stepped out of the elevator, one of the officers said softly, "Nothing coming from the apartment, Sir. Not a sound."

Simon nodded and glanced at Jim, who had his head cocked. Simon waited patiently, as did all the other officers. For a moment, Simon almost thought it funny. After all that Blair had done to protect Jim - practically the entire department knew now. Had figured it out.

So stupid, really. Stupid and a waste and...just stupid.

Jim listened intently and, for a moment, thought it was useless, that his senses had gone on the blink again. But then he somehow managed to focus his hearing, to concentrate on how Blair used to sound and, finally, to filter out all the unnecessary sounds until he could hear nothing but the sobs coming from the apartment in question. As he listened, he thought that it was altogether possible that in all his years on the force, with all that he'd seen, he'd never heard such hopeless, gut wrenching sobs before. He picked up the sound of cloth sliding back and forth, almost as if the sobbing individual might be rocking. Suddenly the sobs changed and words replaced them.

//"...Nonono, nonono, pleaseteddywakeup, pleasewakeup, please, Ididn'tmean it. Not you, notyou...."//

Jim moved slowly to the apartment door and, seeing that it hadn't been closed completely, rested his hand on the doorknob. Simon was right behind him, gun out and ready. Carefully and quietly, Jim pushed the door all the way open, and eyes adjusting to the darkness within, he immediately spotted a woman. She was young, maybe in her early twenties, sitting on the floor and cradling a body as she rocked and moaned. On the floor, by her leg, was the gun.

Jim walked softly to her side, picked up the gun, then stepped back and turned on the light.

The girl lifted a tear-stained face to the two men. "I didn't know," she said, her voice breaking. "Paul said he'd kill me, that he was coming home to kill me. I took his gun and waited. I was going to let him come inside and then shoot him so he'd never be able to hurt me again."

She glanced down at the young man in her arms, Jim and Simon following her gaze.

Long, curly brown hair splayed out across her arms, a flannel shirt open at the collar to reveal wiry chest hair....

For the briefest of nightmarish moments, Jim was certain he was seeing Blair...but the profile...the hands...no, no, not Blair...but so much like him.

"Teddy should be at work," the girl said suddenly. "At work, but...but... He came home early."

As her tears dropped onto the lifeless face and blue eyes stared unseeingly upward, she started crooning, "MyTeddy...myTeddy, didn't know it was you, didn't know. So sorry...so sorrysosorrysosorrysosorry...."

Megan stepped up beside Simon and whispered, "Teddy Deakins, 18 years of age. She's Laura Deakins, age 22, his sister. He just moved here a few days ago. According to Mrs. Perkins, Paul is Paul Scott, Miss Deakins fianc. He lives here as well."

Simon glanced down at Megan and nodded.

Apparently, Laura Deakins had accidentally killed her brother while waiting to kill her fianc.

Since the scene could be considered secured, Simon motioned for the Crime Scene team and the Coroner to enter even as Jim gently pulled the girl away from her brother's lifeless body. He gave her over to Megan and, with a final glance back at the boy, walked out, Simon following. Without a word, both entered the elevator, rode down to the lobby, and then outside.

Jim paused on the sidewalk and, for a moment, stared at the people, the cars and the lights before glancing back at the building. He looked up at the fourth floor for several minutes and, finally, moved into the adjoining alley, a puzzled Simon on his heels.

Worried in a way that set the hair on his arms standing on end, Simon followed Jim into the darkness that was the alley. He watched, concerned, as his friend rested one hand against the cool brick surface of the building and lowered his head. A moment later...Jim began to tremble. Concerned, Simon took a step toward him but Jim waved him off as the shaking increased and his breathing took on a harshness that was painful to hear, but not as horrible as watching those pale blue eyes fill with moisture.

It had been almost two years since the press conference and now, finally, Jim was feeling it with more than anger. Simon watched, stunned, as the tears began to fall, as sobs wracked his friend's body. Jim would have gone to his knees if Simon had not been there to catch him, to hold him.

The loft was quiet, one lone light spreading a muted glow over Simon. Feeling every minute of his forty-plus years, he wished dearly for something stronger than coffee. He glanced upward, at the bedroom where Jim finally slept the sleep of the exhausted.

Leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, Simon dropped his head into his hands.

It had happened.

Jim's steely self-control had finally broken.

Simon doubted that the spillage could be contained.

Blair sat at his work table, a cup of coffee next to his right hand as he read the morning paper.

Track of the Cat was a bestseller and had spent over twenty weeks in the number one slot. Even now, after all these months, it remained in the top ten. His second book, Lair of the Cat, now held the number one spot on the New York Times Bestseller list. For reasons Blair still didn't understand, the adventures of Joe Elliot had captured the attention of the reading public, who apparently loved the idea of a hero who believed in protecting his territory, who harkened back to the Sam Spade days but with a sense of humor definitely belonging in the twenty-first century.

Blair had been certain that only he could appreciate Joe's world, the only world he truly inhabited - but fortunately for his bank account, he'd been wrong.

Now, because Joe's world was the only one he cared about, the only one he could inhabit, he was already into the third installment. Hell, if he had his way, he'd never leave Joe's universe. Unfortunately, a small part of him insisted that he perform the mundane tasks of living before he'd allow himself to re-enter Joe's life. One of those tasks, as Lori's earlier phone call had reminded, was to read the morning paper from cover to cover every morning, preferably with breakfast, the one meal he was guaranteed to eat.

Like now.

Today it was toast, bacon and scrambled eggs to accompany the Orange County Register. He'd just finished the comics and obituaries and was going through the personals.

He sipped from his mug of hot coffee as he read some of the ridiculous pleas, smiled at the clearly dirty ones and frowned at the more personal missives. He was almost done when his gaze fell on the second ad from the bottom....

//To: BS - parts unknown
JE - 911
From: SB - Cascade//

Blair put the phone down, but kept his hand on the receiver, fingers gripping it hard.

His past had just collided with his present and Jim was in trouble.

It had been strange hearing Simon's voice again. So strange. The conversation had been strained, stilted, but Simon had filled him in on Jim's condition and, when Blair had said he'd leave right away, he'd heard the mistakable sigh of relief on the other end of the phone.

So.

So...he'd better call Lori - get the ball rolling. He lifted the phone again, hit her speed dial number and, minutes later, after her promise to make all the arrangements necessary, he was up and moving, packing, his stomach rolling, his mind numb.

Two hours after reading the S.O.S in the Register, he was, without thought, walking out the front door and into the waiting cab, his Volvo long since junked.

The adrenalin continued to propel him into the John Wayne Airport, up to the gate and into the first class section of the plane. The energy lasted through the slow taxi back from the gate and while the plane hurtled down the runway. Only when the wheels lifted from the ground did Blair realize what he'd done - and where he. The drop of adrenalin brought with it a panic attack that managed to thoroughly embarrass him, not to mention the stewardess.

Two scotch and waters later, his breathing finally evened out and his heart started pumping in its nice, normal thump-thump pattern. When the plane touched down in Washington, Blair was able to get up, grab his bag and smile rather ruefully at the stewardess who'd been so helpful. He entered the airport, ignored the stab of pain that came with the familiarity, and headed for the street and a cab.

The trip to the loft was a blur, none of the familiar sights registering. Evidently, the shock of being here was returning, but this time, instead of a panic attack, he was going blissfully numb, a fact that was proven when the cab pulled up in front of his old home.

He spotted both Jim's truck and Simon's car...and felt nothing.

When he walked into the lobby, nothing happened. He ignored the elevator in favor of the stairs, more in an effort to prolong facing his past than anything else. Unfortunately, two flights of stairs didn't take him long and eventually he reached the third floor.

Stepping onto the landing, he turned to his left...and there was Jim's door.

And he felt nothing.

He walked up to it...raised his fist...and knocked gently.

The door was thrown open and Simon was glowering down at him.

Gosh, home-sweet-home.

Simon stared at the four walls and tried to put this whole thing into perspective, but failed. Since the night they'd been called out to the shooting and found the young woman cradling the dead body of her younger brother, a body that looked horribly like Blair, Jim had been... Damn, Simon couldn't even describe to himself what Jim was like. It was if he had become nothing but emotions, raw, oozing, bleeding into everything he did, every daily task. His senses had gone haywire, making everything even more miserable for the man.

There'd been days when Jim could hear nothing and days when he'd been unable to see more than dark shapes. His temper was lightening lightning fast and just as quickly burn to nothing, leaving an abject Jim in its wake. Work had quickly become impossible but, since he couldn't be left alone, Simon had moved in, had been living with him for the last seven days. When Simon had to go to the station, another member of Major Crime came in during their off hours and watched over him.

Desperate to save his friend, Simon found himself grasping at straws, one of which had been the ridiculous act of putting a personal ad in several papers from Washington to California and even New York. On day three of the ad, the miracle had occurred. The phone rang and, on the other end, Blair.

He'd almost fallen in his relief at hearing Blair's voice. He'd told him what he could and, when Blair said he'd be there as quickly as possible, had sighed in complete relief. Blair would fix things. He'd make this right, fix Jim.

Of course, being no fool, Simon had wisely refrained from telling Jim about the ad, which left him alone to wait, first for a response, and now, for Blair's arrival, which, according to the time, should be any minute. He no sooner thought that, than someone knocked gently on the door. Simon jumped up and threw it open.

"Simon."

"Sandburg."

The large man stepped aside and Blair walked in, a black leather garment bag slung over his shoulder.

"Thank you for coming."

The bag slipped to the floor as Blair gazed about the apartment. It was - different. Less. He turned back to Simon and shrugged. "Where is he? Upstairs?"

"No. He went for a walk about twenty minutes ago. Today is an okay day. His senses are borderline not-there, but he needed to get outside. He should be back shortly. Can I get you something?"

They were both so formal and it was killing Blair, but he didn't seem to have the power to stop it.

"No, nothing, thank you." He indicated the loft and asked, "Why so empty?"

"Jim had a small temper tantrum not long after you left. He hasn't replaced anything yet."

"I see. The triptych?"

"Destroyed it. The yellow chair too, and the end table and lamp. The table by the door too. One dining room chair and, as you can see, most of what used to rest on the stereo. Tore up more than a few books, too."

As Simon pointed out the empty areas, his voice took on an edge of anger and, hearing it, Blair moved back toward the door. "I think...I think I'll see if I can find him, you know?"

When Simon didn't answer, Blair asked, "He used to like to go to the bay when he needed to be alone. Do you think he might be there?"

Simon stared at him - hard - before nodding. "Yeah, it's a good bet," he said gruffly.

"Right. Then I'll go." With that, Blair walked out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

As the door snicked shut, it hit Simon.

Blair was actually here. He'd been standing right there, next to the garment bag which was hanging over the back of one of the dining room chairs.

And yet...the way Blair sounded, his voice low, rough, as if unfamiliar with speaking. And his hair...it was short. Short and very curly, unruly even. His eyes, Blair's blue eyes had seemed huge to Simon and, in spite of the expensive Ralph Lauren polo shirt and equally expensive slacks, not to mention the five o'clock shadow, Blair had looked younger than he'd first seen him.

But now, if not for his luggage, Simon would have doubted that he'd been there at all.

Blair took the elevator down and, as he stepped outside, his first impulse was to run, preferably toward the airport.

God damn it, how was he supposed to have known that Jim would have these problems? Was this his fault too? Would he have to carry this as well?

Simon certainly seemed to think so.

Without realizing it, his feet were already taking him in the direction of the bay. When he reached Sail Drive, he jogged across the street and headed down to the rocky shore.

The wind from off the water sliced through him and he remembered, belatedly, that he was once again in the Pacific Northwest, not Southern California, and his jacket was back at the loft, tucked securely into his bag. Fortunately, he spotted Jim almost immediately.

He stood facing the water, hands shoved deep into his pockets, the collar of his peacoat turned up against the wind and cold.

Jim.

The lanky frame he knew so well, the short hair, spiking in the breeze....

The need to touch, to feel Jim, was almost overwhelming.

The water was steel grey with small whitecaps that promised a storm. The horizon was shrouded in fog but here, on the bay, it was clear and cold.

Blair's breathing increased and he could feel his heart thudding in his chest, then his throat. What could he do for Jim? What would Jim want from him? And where was Carolyn? Damn, he should have asked Simon.

As he continued to watch his ex-partner, he suddenly realized that Jim didn't know he was there, didn't know someone was behind