All characters of The Sentinel are the property of Di Meo, Bilson, Petfly and U/A. Which is a darn shame if you ask me, 'cause Sheryl and I would treat them way better. Rachel Burke, who makes an appearance later in the story, is a character from the last season of The Profiler, belongs to Sander/Moss and NBC. Not that they treated her and her brethren much better than UPN treated the boys.

This story started out as just the promise of a sex scene a bribe for my friend Sheryl, in return for her everlasting Soul. BWAHAHAHA! Okay, in return for her vote in an election I was trying to fix. What she bought herself was the following: Lash-mares; the nipple ring; flavored lube; fingers wrapped around the loft railing; scenting and long sweeps of the tongue. The rest of the story I threw in for gratis (and because I can't do anything the short/easy way). But then she got stuck betaing the beast and trying to fix my reams of punctuation errors, so I'm not so sure she came out on top with that either. And poor Keri just got dragged into the beta process because she can't say no.

Cypher (like the title didn't give that away), Light My Fire, Sentinel, Too (oh, don't look at me like that, like that's any big surprise).

Done.

I glance over at the clock, squinting to read its red glow, and I drop the last blue book into the finished pile.

11:39.

Decision time. If I log the grades now, I don't have to come back in the morning, but if I leave now I might actually have time to grab something to eat before I crash. While eating doesn't exactly sound like the most appealing thing in the world right now, I can't remember the last time I did. Which might explain the headache that's been pounding at the back of my skull for the last few hours.

Yeah, I know that I need to eat more. I am the person who has to look at me in the mirror when I get out of the shower each morning. And even if the hollow cheeks staring back at me weren't enough, Megan has made her opinion on my recent dietary habits perfectly clear. Or should I say LOUD and clear? When she's not interrogating me about when the last time I ate was, she's dropping food on the desk in front of me and standing over me glaring until I eat enough to satisfy her. Subtle she's not. And who would've guessed she had such a maternal streak?

It gives me a good excuse to avoid the station though. Not that I've been avoiding the station, exactly. It's just . . . Well, yeah, if I'm going to be perfectly honest with myself, and if I can't be, who can, I have been avoiding the station. Which is kind of weird, you'd think I'd feel more comfortable, safer, in a room full of cops than I would here, where Alex found me. But I'm not, at least, not as long as I don't think about it, about looking up to find Alex pointing a gun at me.

The whole thing happened so early in the morning that the campus was practically deserted. So, even if people may have heard about it, they didn't see it, they probably didn't even hear about it from someone who saw first hand. At the station it's a whole `nother thing, though. Most of the guys Jim and I work with in Major Crimes were there, they saw me dead, they saw the paramedics give up, and they saw Jim refuse to and somehow will me back to life.

And, logically, I know they're only behaving the way they are because they're my friends, because they care, and because what they saw freaked them out so badly. Hell, it would've freaked me out too. If I'd been alive to see it. But if one more person looks at me like I'm made out of glass and will shatter at the first strong breeze, I finally am going to snap. Just one more concerned glance, one more polite question regarding my health, one more caring suggestion that maybe I should be taking it a little easier, considering, and Blair Sandburg is going to explode all over the walls of Major Crime.

I wonder if they'll have to repaint?

Okay, that's it. I'm officially punchy. Time to go home and . . .

Home.

Shit.

That hurt. Worse than drowning.

The loft isn't home, not anymore. Maybe it never was. Maybe I was just fooling myself the entire time.

Which brings me back to the reason I seem to have trouble eating these days. I try. I really do. But every time I even think about eating, I see Jim. Jim telling me to get out. Jim telling me he doesn't trust me. Jim saying he doesn't want or need me around anymore. Jim as he took Alex in his arms and kissed her. And after that, man, who could eat?

So, instead of doing what's probably the sensible thing, I grab my laptop and start logging in the grades. At least this way I won't have to come in early tomorrow and post them.

I'm halfway through them before I remember that Jim's on a stakeout with Megan. If I head out now I can get back to the loft, choke down a sandwich and still have a couple hours to grab some sleep before he gets home. Who knows, maybe I'm finally tired enough to sleep through the nightmares.

Poised on the edge of decision, I almost don't notice the sound at my door. So much for not being freaked out by being alone in my office, because when I do notice, my heart races out of control and I feel myself balancing on the fine edge of a panic attack. The memory of Alex stepping through that door suddenly becomes all too painfully clear. But just as my heart is about to beat it's way out of my chest, a manila envelope slides under the door.

Great. Some undergrad tries to slip their outline in after the deadline and I'm about to wet my pants. Nice going, Sandburg. No wonder Jim can't look you in the eye, can't stand to be in the same room with you.

Okay, that's enough of that. I am so not going to sit in my dark, cold office in the middle of the night and scare the crap out of myself.

Bluebooks. Laptop. Backpack, backpack, where's the . . . Ah ha. I scoop it up off the floor and shove the bluebooks and laptop inside with the rest of the crap and head for the door, slowing only to grab the envelope. It feels weird, bulkier than an outline should be and kind of squishy in the middle. That gets my attention.

Yeah, yeah, I know what everyone said about curiosity and the cat, but I still open it. You'd think after three years of riding around with a detective from Major Crime I'd learn to be more careful. You'd think.

The first thing I pull out is a piece of paper. It's yellow, with a few words scrawled across it.

Who are you now?

What the hell? There's got to be more than this. So I reach in again and wrap my fingers around something soft and silky. I can feel the air leave my lungs as I look at it. My mind screams out a denial that never makes it past my lips. I can't make a sound, can't move as I look at it. Even the air I'm trying to breathe seems too heavy to pass through my lungs. All I can do is stare at it until it slips from my fingers and floats down to the floor.

A scarf.

A yellow scarf.

The phone starts buzzing in my hand before I realize I've been sitting on the edge of the bed for the last two minutes just staring into space. Jesus Christ. A yellow scarf. Just thinking about it gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I waste another ten seconds glaring at the phone as if it's somehow to blame for the news it delivered. Realistically, I know that middle of the night phone calls never bring good news, and given some of the other possibilities, I guess I should be grateful. Daryl's safe. None of my men are wounded, or worse. Remembering the shaky sound of Sandburg's voice, though, I feel anything but grateful. Jesus, hasn't the kid been through enough lately? Haven't we all?

I'm so concerned about Sandburg that I'm dressed and halfway to the front door before I even think of the real problem. Ellison. Sandburg called me directly, which means he didn't call his partner. So, do I call him myself? I don't know which will piss him off more, if I do or don't. Once upon a time that would've been easy to answer; Jim would've torn my head off for even pausing to think about it. But now . . . now he alternates between freezing Sandburg out and practically ripping the throat out of anyone who even looks at the kid funny.

Christ, I never thought I'd actually find myself wishing for those early days when all we had to worry about was Jim's senses and explaining why our ninety day observer had been around for three times that long. But, damn, looking back everything seems so much easier then. Before Jim shot that guard. Before the Chopec showed up in Cascade. Before Ellison decided to take a time-out that didn't include his partner. Before Barnes breezed into town and tore everything left between them apart. Before we pulled what she left of Sandburg out of that damned fountain.

It's times like this that I really hate being Captain.

God, I'm getting too old for this. I used to be able to stay up for three days and still manage a twenty-mile hike. Now I just want to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. Or better yet, crawl into Sandburg's bed and hold him for a week. But I can't do that, because it would be crossing the invisible line I drew in the sand the first time I realized that I didn't just love the kid, I loved him.

Hell, these days I can't even bring myself to touch him. The casual pats, the friendly cuffs, the occasional arm across his shoulders . . . all gone. Because I'm too much of a coward to take that trip, or any other, with him. And even if I weren't afraid of where it might lead, of opening my heart to him, the kid looks like he'd shatter in a good stiff wind.

Then there's the fact that he barely speaks when he's around me now. It wasn't always like that. We used to talk. He used to talk. All the time. About everything, nothing. I miss that, miss the sound of his voice, deep, soothing. It used to roll over me like a salve, touching places inside me left cold and dark for too many years. Places that are now crying out for that gentle healing balm.

Catching a glimpse of the Volvo in the parking lot, I'm at least relieved to know he made it home tonight. He works too hard, he always has. Short changing sleep for the opportunity to do just one more thing for one more person. His students, his co-workers, the police department, me. And what does he get in return? Pretty much nothing.

He gets . . . God, I can't even think the word without getting a lump in my throat. He gets killed in that Godforsaken fountain on their fucking campus and the university administrators get pissed because he misses finals. And then to top it off, the second he steps off the plane from Sierra Verde they dump a last minute summer school class on him so some professor can take a European holiday.

Yeah, that's good, Ellison, blame the university for how rough Blair is around the edges these days. Don't think about what you did, what you're still doing, just keep coasting along pretending none of it was your fault. Denial, it ain't just a river in Egypt, it's a fucking Ellison family tradition.

A quick sensory sweep as I step into the loft stops this thought process, nearly stops my heart, because I can't hear him, can't smell him, can't sense his presence in anyway. But he has to be here. I saw the Volvo downstairs. It's three o'clock in the morning. There's nowhere else he can be. He has to be here. So why can't I hear him?

I nearly tear the French doors off their hinges trying to get into his room. It's empty. Okay, calm down. Stop, take a deep breath and think. He's out with a girl, a friend, something and . . . and he thought he'd just walk to work tomorrow?

Before I can panic again I notice the flashing light on the answering machine. Be Sandburg. Just please be Sandburg. And be all right. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely manage to hit the playback button on the machine. When did my hands start shaking?

"Jim,"

Simon. No.

"there's been an incident at the university and Sandburg's"

An incident? An INCIDENT? My heart freezes in my chest as I flashback to the last incident involving Sandburg at the university and I can taste the bitter tang of chlorine on my lips, feeling the chill of Blair's mouth as I try to force air into flooded lungs.

When I shake myself out of it, I realize that I've missed most of Simon's message and dive for the replay button.

"Jim, there's been an incident at the university and Sandburg's . . .

WHAT? I want to shake the machine and make it divulge its secrets faster

" . . . The kid's pretty shaken up by it. Hell, I'm pretty shaken up by it. I didn't think it was a good idea to leave him alone there, not tonight anyway, so I brought him by my place. He's going to spend the night in Daryl's room. Listen, it's late and it'll probably be even later when you get this, so just relax and try to get some sleep. I'm going to try and catch some sleep, myself. I'll explain everything when I bring Sandburg home in the morning."

Relax. Try to get some sleep. He'll explain in the morning.

No fucking way!

Ellison. I should've known, who the hell else would be pounding on my front door at 3:27 am. Dropping my gun on the side table, I decide to open the door before he breaks it down.

"Jim . . ." I barely get the word out of my mouth before he's brushing past me.

"Where is he?"

I'm stunned for a moment by the emotion in Jim's voice, whatever it is that's been making him behave the way he has been toward Sandburg lately, it's sure as hell not apathy. By the time I catch up, Jim's just standing in the doorway to Daryl's room, head bowed, knuckles white as he clutches the doorknob. He takes one deep breath and then another before stepping into the room. As I watch, he moves hesitantly over to the bed, just hovering over Sandburg, watching him breathe.

"Jim?" The call is soft, so soft that I can barely hear it myself, but I know he does. Hell, he can probably hear a fly land.

The man that turns to face me bares almost no resemblance to the friend I've known for the last six years. It's a face I've only seen on only one other occasion, a cold morning in May, twisted with pain and grief.

"Come on, Jim." I reach out and squeeze his shoulder, it's meant to be reassuring, but I doubt it was. "Let's go into the kitchen. I'll put on some coffee and we can talk."

He looks torn between following me and getting the information I can tell he needs and standing guard over Sandburg. Finally, with a nod of his head and one last lingering glance at his sleeping partner, he follows me out.

Lash is dead. I know he's dead because I killed him. I put five bullets into his body and ended his worthless excuse for a life. In that moment I didn't care about the law or justice, the only thing that mattered was upstairs chained to a dentist's chair and there was no way in hell I was going to let that monster near him again. Back then I hadn't even begun to grasp how important Blair was to me, how much I needed him, I just knew I had to protect him.

So I look at the pictures Simon brought home from the scene and I try and wrap my mind around the possibilities. The who and the why of this. I'm a cop, this is what I do for a living, it should be no problem for me. But it is, a big one, because all I can think of is how Blair must've felt when he opened that envelope and how if things had gone differently I could've lost him before I even knew anything was wrong.

"Look, Jim, I know this has you worried, but there's no reason to believe this is anything other than some kind of sick joke."

I know Simon is trying to reassure me, and on some level I appreciate it, but I don't buy it anymore than he does. He didn't drag Blair home and ensconce him in Daryl's room because he thought it was a joke.

Looking into Simon's eyes, I can see the painful memories lurking back there, I can almost hear his voice frantically asking me if I hear a heartbeat, and I know he's just as worried as I am.

That's the straw that finally breaks what little distance I'm managed to gain. I need to be back in that room, watching over Blair, making sure he's safe. Because I don't think I could live with any other alternative.

"Jim, where are you . . ." Simon looks startled as I spring to my feet and turn away without a word.

I don't care.

I move silently into the room and just stand over him, watching him sleep. He looks so damn young and vulnerable lying there and once more I feel the urge to crawl in next to him, gather him in my arms and never let go. Instead, I settle for brushing my fingers lightly over his cheek on the pretense of pushing back one of the wild spray of curls that's clinging to his face.

Part of me, the paranoid part, wants to wake him so I can get him to move to the other bed, the one away from the door and the window, the one where anyone trying to get to him would have to go through me first. Another part of me wants to wake him just so I can hear his voice and look into his eyes, see for myself that he's all right with this.

But I ignore both parts because even sleeping he looks tired and drawn, the dark smudges beneath his eyes adding to the air of youth and frailty. I can't help snorting softly at the thought; Blair would probably kick my ass if he knew what I was thinking. Before the . . . damn, there's that lump again.

Before the drowning, my partner was the strongest person I've ever known. In mind and spirit, he never let anything affect him for long. I'm not saying he was cold or distant, that's my role in this partnership. Blair is just the opposite. He manages to be open and caring and still maintain his sense of self and his desire to help people, no matter how much inhumanity my job exposes him to. Or at least he did. Before.

Now, though, it seems like something is missing, like some part of him never came back from that fountain. The sparkle is missing from his eyes and that annoying, wonderful bounce is missing from his step. I'd give just about anything to bring them back.

A soft rustling behind me draws my attention back to the moment and I realize that Simon is standing in the doorway, holding a pillow and extra blanket, looking slightly uncomfortable.

Seeing them makes me remember just how tired I am and I give him a grateful smile as I take them from him and toss them on the second small bed. Once Simon leaves I stop and watch Blair for a few moments longer, taking comfort in the gentle rise and fall of his chest before stripping down to my boxers and climbing into the bed. I can feel sleep rushing up to claim me before my head even hits the pillow.

I'm not sure how much time has passed before I hear the hushed sounds coming from the other bed, but I'm instantly awake when I do, all senses on alert. Blair lets out a murmur so low that even with my hearing dialed up, I can barely make it out.

"you can't be me"

Oh God. Blair.

I'm out of the bed in an instant, sitting carefully on the edge of his bed and brushing my hand across his forehead, making what I hope are soothing noises.

"Shh, Chief, it's all right. It's just a dream." He shifts in his sleep, pressing his cheek into my hand and I feel a warm rush of affection as I continue my quiet comfort. "That's it, Blair, it's just a bad dream. He's gone, he can't hurt you. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Blair finally quiets down, without ever really waking, and something in my chest, something I didn't even know was there, loosens a little with the thought that however badly things are screwed up right now, on some subconscious level he still trusts me.

Despite the circumstances, my heart feels lighter as I crawl back into bed, the thought that maybe, just maybe, things aren't as hopeless between us as I thought following me into sleep.

The first thing I notice as I wake up is the sunlight. It's coming into my room at an entirely wrong angle and I wonder for a moment how I got myself so twisted around on my bed. Then I realize that I'm not in my bed. That's when last night's events come rushing back to me.

Before I can descend fully into the panic attack I figure I so richly deserve, Jim's perching on the edge of the bed smiling down at me. The look on his face in that first instant is so gentle and tender that it steals my breath for a moment. It disappears before I have a chance to react to it, which is probably a good thing, `cause God only knows what kind of fool I might make of myself if it hadn't, and it's replaced with something I don't recognize. But even that's gone in a fleeting instant, shut behind the Great Wall of Ellison.

"Hey, Sandburg, you ready for breakfast?" Jim moves to stand in the doorway, watching me, but never quite making eye contact as I sit up slowly and rummage around the bed for my clothes.

"I guess, I just . . . " Rubbing my face, I shake my head and look at him again. "What're you doing here?"

"Trying to get some breakfast." Jim sounds impatient and I wonder why I bothered asking.

"Yeah, well, whatever." I finish tying my shoe and reach for the second one. "Tell Simon I'll be out in a minute."

I can feel Jim watching me as I tie the second shoe, but when I look up he's gone. Guess it was just my imagination. Considering the way Jim's been acting around me lately, I'm surprised he's even here.

Simon and Jim are talking pretty intently when I walk into the room and from the look Simon throws in my direction, I know it's got to be about me. Simon's probably telling Jim how badly I overreacted last night. Great, like things aren't bad enough.

"'Morning, Simon." I try to smile as I plop down in the nearest chair, but I don't think I'm fooling anyone. "Is that coffee I smell?"

"Help yourself." Simon motions back toward the kitchen, still giving me that same look he wore when I walked in. "There's food on the stove."

Coffee. Nectar of the Gods. I'm halfway through the cup and back to the table before what Simon said about breakfast sinks in. Food? One glance at Jim, the tense jaw, the cold, flat eyes, and I can tell he's angry. Any appetite I might've had flees with that realization. He's mad at me, great.

"Is that all you're planning on having, Sandburg?" Well, at least Simon's not giving me that look anymore, now he just looks kind of annoyed.

"Yeah, I'm not really hungry." I shrug and continue to drink my coffee, hoping I can just get out of here before I make Jim any angrier.

"You need to eat, Sandburg." Jim startles me as he appears next to my chair and bangs a plate of food down in front of me, I don't remember him moving.

If the look on Jim's face as he stares at my plate is any indication, it's too late to make my escape without pissing him off anymore. But I don't see why that should surprise me. These days pretty much all I have to do is breathe around Jim and it pisses him off.

"Thanks," I push the plate away and gulp down the last of my coffee as I stand, "but I don't really have time to eat. I've got to get over to the university and post the rest of the grades for the test before the office opens."

"What? No way!"

Huh? What'd I do now? I thought he'd be glad to get rid of me. "No way, what?"

"You're not going to the university, Chief." Jim's got his arms crossed and I've seen hardened criminals melt under the glare he's giving me.

"Excuse me?" I know I must look like an idiot, standing here with my mouth hanging open, but I'm honestly shocked by Jim's reaction. What the hell is going on with him? One minute he's acting like he can't get away from me fast enough, and the next he's telling me I can't leave.

"You heard me, Chief." Jim starts edging between me and the door, like he thinks I'm going to make a break for it. "There's no way you're going to the university, or anywhere else, alone. Not after that gift that got dropped off for you last night."

"You've got to be kidding. Tell me you're kidding." I throw an imploring glance in Simon's direction, hoping for a little help, but the stern expression on his face tells me not to expect much support from that quarter. "Look, Jim, I realize that I overreacted a little last night. It was late, I was tired, and that scarf really freaked me out." Now I'm starting to sound a little defensive, but given everything that's happened lately, I think I'm entitled, "But I'm not going to let some jerk with a sick sense of humor keep me from doing my job."

"And what if it wasn't just some fuck with a sick sense of humor?" I catch a glimmer of whatever it was I saw in the bedroom as Jim advances toward me. "What if it's some psycho bent on picking up where Lash left off?"

Jim's starting to sound more paranoid than I do, on some level I know that should worry me, but I'm just too tired and too confused at this point to care anymore. "Come on, Jim, what are the chances of that?"

"With you, Blair? Too high, way too high."

I'm left standing in a daze in the middle of Simon's dining room as Jim walks away.

"Jim, man, you can't spend all morning standing in the hallway glaring at anyone who tries to come into my office."

"Watch me." This is Blair's third attempt to get me to leave since we came up with this compromise, okay, since Simon ordered it, and arrived at the university. He might as well give it up now. There's no way I'm budging from his side until we know for sure that last night's delivery was nothing more than a sick joke.

"Fine, whatever, stand out there all day, just stop scaring off my students, okay?"

"How much longer is this going to take?" I ask, ignoring his request and managing to scare off one of the aforementioned students at the same time.

"Hey, like I said, you're free to leave at any time."

"Sandburg," I growl and for a second I catch the beginnings of a grin playing around the corners of his mouth.

"The grades are all logged. If my last appointment shows up on time, we should be able to get out of here in about half an hour." He checks the clock over the door. "In fact, he should be here any sec."

Before I can reply, a skinny kid with dark hair rushes breathlessly up to the door. "Dr. Sandburg, I'm sorry I'm late."

"You're not late, Norm," Sandburg assures the kid. "And it's just Blair, I'm not a doctor yet. Go ahead and grab a seat. Mr. Ellison will wait outside," he says pointedly.

With a shrug I close the door and dial up my hearing. Confident I can take out the door and the kid on the other side if the need arises.

Oh man, I have never been so happy to see a Monday morning in my life. Jim spent the entire weekend acting like a deranged Doberman. I thought he'd blow an aneurysm when I stepped out to pick up the paper without consulting with him first. I mean, I was two feet from the front door, two feet, and Jim comes blowing out of the bathroom to grab me by the arm and drag me back into the loft.

You'd've thought by his reaction that I was planning the great escape. Hell, he didn't even stop long enough to grab a towel. I don't even want to know what the new neighbor across the hall thought when he saw me being dragged back in by a naked man.

Nope, definitely don't want to know. I think I'll file that one way with my reaction to being manhandled by a naked Jim. There's something seriously wrong, on a Freudian level, with getting hard over something that pisses you off that much.

But after three days of absolutely nothing, even Jim had to admit that maybe this was just somebody's idea of a sick joke. Which means I've finally been released from Jim's version of protective custody. With the proviso that I call Jim when I get to the university. When my class is over. Before I leave for the station. Whenever I go to or come back from the bathroom.

Okay, so that last part might be an exaggeration. But not by much.

So, here I sit, happily listening to Norm Perkins droning on about his grade on the mid-term and why he chose ritual sacrifice in Mayan culture for his term paper. Hell, I'd happily listen to a dozen more freshmen drone on about any number of topics if it meant escaping the constant scrutiny I've been living under. Wonder if I could extend my office hours till November?

" . . . so, Professor Sandburg, what do you think?"

Uh oh. It's at this point that I realize that Norm expects a response. From me. And I have no idea what he was talking about. Fortunately, the phone rescues me before I can make a complete fool of myself.

"Just let me get this, Norm." I hope that was a patient smile. "Blair Sandburg."

"Sandburg, where the hell are you?" Oh great, it's the warden. Guess I'm late for bed check. "You were supposed to be at the station ten minutes ago."

Glancing at the clock, I bite back a wince as I realize he's right. I told him I was leaving my office forty minutes ago. "Yeah, sorry, man, I got caught by a student on my way out and I didn't get a chance to call you back."

"Damn it, Chief." I can hear his sigh over the line, picture the hand he rubs across his face, and I feel a stab of something that feels remarkably similar to guilt. "I know you think you can take care of yourself, but our deal was you let me know where you're going to be. I can't help you if I don't know where you are."

Oh yeah, that's guilt, and suddenly I feel like a world-class schmuck. I've been moping around for weeks, upset because I didn't think Jim seemed to care enough about my way too near death experience, but the first time he starts to show a bit of concern, I start chaffing at the bit like a spoiled teenager.

"I'm sorry, man, really." I start gathering everything I need off my desk and stuff it into my backpack, "I'm a schmuck and I didn't mean to worry you, I just got distracted. But I'm on my way, right now. Promise."

"All right," He sounds better, relieved, and it alleviates a little of my guilt. Maybe I'll stop at Wonder Burger on my way in and see if I can't buy my way out of a little more. On second thought, maybe not. The thought of what all that grease will do to his arteries, not to mention the vein he'll probably burst if I take more then five minutes longer than he's calculated it should take me to get there, quash that plan pretty effectively.

With a quick apology to Norm, I'm out the door and on my way to my car in less then three minutes.

I'm not worried. I'm not. But if Sandburg doesn't step off that elevator in the next three minutes I'm putting out an APB on him and his car. Two and a half minutes.

And what the hell is Connor looking at? She's been smirking in my direction for the last ten minutes. Doesn't she have something else to do? Like hunting down the person who sold her that coat and arresting them for illegal drug use and intentionally creating a public eyesore.

Two minutes. If I call down to dispatch now, I can already have the APB in process when the time comes. 555-89 . . .

He's in the elevator. I can hear him explaining the origin of aphrodisiacs in ancient Saxon culture to . . . I expand my hearing, just a little, and pick up a woman's throaty laughter. I can hear her talking now, flirting with Sandburg and asking him if he's ever tried any of them. Blair returns her laughter, when was the last time I heard him laugh?, but turns down her offer for lunch just as the elevator opens onto the sixth floor.

Mentally filing the woman's voice away for future reference, I grab the nearest folder and flip it open, trying to look like I wasn't just about to jump out my skin waiting for him.

"Hey, man." He drops his backpack on the floor next to my desk and plops down into the chair. "I'm, like, really sorry about earlier. Norm said it was just going to take a minute and then . . ." He's moving his hand through the air in a vague gesture. I wonder if he has any idea how, well, cute that is. " . . . time just got away from me."

I'll give him this, he really does look contrite. Maybe I should take him out to lunch, I'll bet he didn't have a chance to eat between his students and having to rush here to meet me.

Besides, he's been looking way too thin and I know this can't be the first meal he's skipped recently. Getting a little time alone with him away from the station . . . that's just a lucky coincidence.

Sandy's here, thank God. The way Ellison's been alternating his glare between the bloody doorway and his phone for the last twenty-five minutes, I've been half expecting him to pop his cork. As it is, I think he's broken three pencils.

I know I should be minding my own business, I've got a pile of paperwork that Captain Banks is waiting for, but I can't help watching them. I wonder if Jim has any idea of the way his face changes when he knows that Sandy's around. I noticed it even before I found out about Jim's senses and used to wonder how he did it. How he knew that Sandy was nearby. I could always tell by watching Jim when he was. Something about Ellison just loosens up, like he can finally relax, just before Sandy steps off the elevator.

Even these last few weeks, while he's trying so hard to pretend that he doesn't care, I can see the changes come over him when Sandy shows up. They've both been floundering since we came home. I just hope they find their way back to one another before it's too late.

Oh, blimey, now I sound like a bloody bodice ripper. I really need to get laid. Hell, even a bloody date would be a nice change.

Now my phone is ringing. I wonder what the chances are that it's Prince Charming come to take me away from all this.

"Major Crime, Inspector Connor." Nope, not Prince Charming, just Homicide inviting me to a lovely crime scene over on Hopper. And I wasn't even their first choice, just the one unlucky enough to be near the phone when they couldn't find Ellison. Where did he bugger off to anyway?

Dropping the phone back into the cradle with a curse, I look up just in time to see Ellison and Sandburg as they step back into the bullpen from wherever it is they went, probably lunch. Things still aren't back to normal between them, but I can see that something's changed. The distance between them seems to have lessened.

Watching them out there, more relaxed around each other than I've seen them in weeks, I'm almost loath to interrupt; it's taken them so long to even take this little step. But I know that Jim's going to want to hear about the plea bargain the D.A. cut with Martinson and I'd just as soon get it over with.

"Jim, you got a minute?"

He turns to look at me from his spot over Sandburg's shoulder. "Yes, sir. Something wrong?"

"No, not wrong, just business as usual." I motion for Sandburg. "You might as well come along, you were part of this case, too."

"Sure thing, Simon." The kid looks a little nervous, like he thinks I'm going to blame him for something.

I thought we got past most of that when his friend Roy Williams died, but this whole thing with Barnes and now with that scarf showing up at his office, he seems to have lost some of his confidence. Can't say I blame him, he didn't get a whole lot of support around here when Jim lost it.

"Sir?" Jim's questioning glance brings me back to the matter at hand. Martinson and the deal he cut with the D.A..

"You'd better take a seat." Bet he stands.

"I'll stand." I knew that.

"Okay, Jim, I know you're not going to like this, but it was your case and I thought you had a right to know." Here goes. "The district attorney cut a deal with Martinson. Man-two, he does five and a half to ten."

"WHAT?"

I see Sandburg flinch when Ellison shouts, I wonder if Jim did. Maybe things haven't improved as much as I thought.

"Is the D.A. nuts? He followed that girl home and beat her to death. No way in hell that's man-two."

"You're preaching to the choir here, Jim." I raise a hand in hopes of slowing my detective's pacing. "I agree, Martinson should've gone down for second degree murder, but the deal's already been cut, there's nothing we can do about it."

"Have her parents been told?" Trust Sandburg to inject a note of humanity into the mix.

"I'm not sure, someone from the district attorney's office should've notified them by now."

"I should probably call them, see how they're doing." Sandburg's already halfway to the door, looking vaguely concerned, when Connor comes busting through the door, looking hell bent for leather.

"Connor, didn't they teach you to knock down under?"

"Sorry, sir," She looks ready to jump out of her skin, "it's just that I've got a rather nasty one here and one of the forensic techs suggested that I show these to you and Ellison right away."

"Um, if nobody minds, I'm gonna skip the show and tell and give Kelly Foster's parents a call."

The kid looks a little green just eyeing the folder in Connor's hand, so I wave him out the door, "Go ahead, Sandburg," and start clearing a space on my desk for Connor's case as she lays the folder down and flips it open.

Good Lord. Tell me I'm not seeing this.

I'm not seeing this. I can't possibly be seeing this. Where's Sandburg?

I feel a fleeting moment of relief when I turn to see him sitting at the desk, engaged in a rather intense phone conversation. Then the realization that I let him go to the university alone today hits me like a ton of bricks and it's all I can do to remain on my feet.

Filling my senses with his presence and keeping them firmly anchored on him, I look again at the photos on Simon's desk. The crime scene is sickeningly familiar, the body, eyes wide in shock and horror, lain out in the bathtub. Because the photos are black and white, they don't tell the color of the silk scarf wrapped around the victim's throat, but it doesn't matter, I know what color it is. I can tell from Simon's sudden intake of breath that he sees the same things I do. How could he not?

"What?" Connor's looking expectantly between Simon and me, waiting for one of us to clue her in. I don't think I have the words inside of me to explain what's wrong with this picture. I'm too busy trying to keep my lunch down and my partner on my radar.

"Two years ago there was this psycho," I can hear Simon struggling to keep his emotions in check as my gaze drifts out into the bullpen again, "David Lash, he killed four people, one of them his own doctor and left their bodies in their bathtubs with a yellow silk scarf wrapped around their necks. After he'd killed them, he traded places with each of his victims, including Dr. Bates."

"He waltzed in here like he owned the place." Still not tearing my eyes away from Blair's position, I interject my own comments in the middle of Simon's explanation. "Came in pretending to be this FBI expert on serial killers. The whole time he's feeding us tidbits about the killer's profile, he's also leaking information about the investigation to the press." And picking out his next victim, but I keep that thought to myself.

"By the time we'd identified him, he'd already changed his appearance and slipped out of the building." I know Simon's looking at the same place I am, remembering the same things. "Jim barely stopped him in time to save his fifth victim."

"Fifth victim?" I can feel Connor's eyes upon me as she catches on, and sense the exact second the pieces fall into place, and her gaze is drawn to the same figure Simon and I watch. "Sandy?"

"He broke into the loft, grabbed Sandburg, but not without one hell of a fight," there's a note of pride in Simon's voice, "and drug him to this warehouse down by Alfred's Pond. Thank God, Jim found him before he could . . ."

"So, Jim saved Sandy, but this Lash character escaped?"

"No!" Okay, exploding at Connor for something that she wasn't even involved with probably isn't the best way to win friends and influence people, but right now I really don't give a damn. "Lash is dead. I shot him myself. I listened to his heart stop. I watched the damn autopsy. He's dead."

"Then, I don't understand . . ." Connor hesitates, trying to put the pieces together. "Are you saying we've got a copycat?"

"Looks that way." Simon opens a desk drawer and drops another file on top of the first. "Sandburg received this four nights ago. It was slipped under his office door at the university."

Connor gasps as the pictures of the note and scarf are revealed. "'Who are you now?' What's that supposed to mean?"

"Lash was here in the building when we found out he wasn't Dr. Bates. Before he escaped, he left us a message on the men's room mirror. *`Who am I now?'* Obviously, this copycat knows about it."

"And now you think they've fixated on Sandy?"

"Looks that way."

"How?" I finally turn away from the window, meeting Simon's somber gaze with an accusing one of my own. "How does this person know it was Sandburg? The scarves, how and where the bodies were found, all that I can see, Lash leaked all that information to the press. But how did anyone find out that Sandburg was the last victim? All the news ever said was police observer."

"Come on, Jim, your name was all over the news at the time, how hard do you think it was to figure out which police observer was involved?"

"I don't like this, Simon." My nails are digging into my palm, but I barely notice the pain. "It's going to go bad, I can feel it."

Okay, enough's enough. I've tried to sit here patiently while they finish their pow-wow, but every time I look up at least one of them is staring at me. I don't think Jim's eyes have left me in the last five minutes. Frankly, it's starting to creep me out a little. Kind of like that feeling you get when someone walks across your grave, which is an image I so don't need at the moment.

I guess the only way to find out what's up is to go back in, because they sure don't look like they're planning on clueing me in anytime soon. Okay, deep breath; act nonchalant. Jim's not going to tell me anything if he thinks I'm freaking out.

Whoa! One foot through the door and already Simon's slamming the file on his desk shut. Given all that I've seen since I started working with Jim, how bad can this be?

"Hey, I just spoke to the Fosters." That's it, keep them believing that you're just here to update them on the phone call. "The D.A.'s office did talk to them before they offered the deal." Lean against the desk, nothing unusual in that, right guys? "They're not happy that Martinson is getting off so easy, but at least Stephanie doesn't have to testify as to what she saw happen to her sister."

I can see the flash of pain in Jim's eyes, the anger that he couldn't nail this guy for more, the displaced guilt that he couldn't save Kelly Foster, and I feel my own twinge of guilt using that to distract him, but it's not enough to keep my hand from shooting across Simon's desk and flipping open the file.

"Sandy? Sandy?" Megan sounds upset and I try to focus on her, but nothing much is making sense to me at the moment. Before I can respond to her, Jim fills my field of vision, pressing something cold into my hand.

"Blair, can you hear me?" He's pushing my hand toward my face, cupping his hand around mine, but I'm still not sure why. "Here, take a drink of this."

Drink? Water? I'm holding a glass of water. Where did it . . . Oh right, Jim. And why am I sitting on Simon's couch? I don't remember moving away from . . . Simon's desk. The pictures.

The sound of my breathing fills my ears, deep painful gasps. And I can feel the adrenaline rushing through my veins, making me shake. Jim's voice, just verging on panicked, fades beneath the pounding of my own pulse, drumming in my ears.

Lash is back.

"Damn it, Simon, you should've put those pictures away as soon as Blair came in!" Yelling at Simon isn't going to accomplish any more than snapping at Connor did, I know that, but the look on Blair's face when he saw those damn pictures just about killed me. And the panic attack that followed stripped me of whatever patience I had left.

Damn it, I should've been thinking. I should've made sure there was no way he could see them. But he was acting so damn normal when he came in and I was so damn shocked, horrified by what I'd just seen, by the thought of what almost happened to Blair, what might happen again, that my instincts didn't kick in until it was too fucking late.

Connor's pushing a glass of water into my hand, I'm not sure where she got it, and I try to hand it to Blair, but he doesn't take it. He's staring blankly ahead, his face pale and shocky. So, I press it into his hand, wrapping mine over his to make sure he doesn't drop it, and bring it to his mouth. "Blair, can you hear me? Here, take a drink of this."

There he is. I can see him coming back to us, to me, as his eyes meet mine in a moment of confusion before he starts to look around. And because I'm so close, I can see the second he remembers, see the fear flooding his eyes.

Before I can do or say anything to reassure him, he starts hyperventilating. Shit, I hate this. I hate watching him take these deep panicked breaths, because even though I know the problem is he's getting too much oxygen, it doesn't sound that way. It sounds like he can't breathe. Like he can't pull a single breath of air into his lungs. I wonder if that's how he sounded at the fountain, as that bitch held his head under, as he struggled to take a breath, to pull anything other then polluted water into his lungs.

"Blair! BLAIR, STOP THIS! It's all right, you're safe; you can breathe!" I wonder who's yelling, then realize that the panicked voice I hear is my own. I need to calm down. I can't help Blair if I'm flying off the handle myself. But I can't. I can't see the fear in his eyes, feel him tremble, and be calm. It's beyond me.

"I'm okay, I'm okay." He's not, I can feel it, hell, I can smell it, but he's trying. "It's okay, Jim. I'm just . . ." He looks up at me helplessly, shaky, and shrugs.

"Sandburg, you sure you're okay?" Simon looms over us. I can feel his concern without turning to look.

"No, not really." Blair smiles up at Simon, it's not a cheerful grin by any means, a little rueful and sheepish, but it's a start. It tells me that while he may not be fine, he will be, and by extension, so will I.

He pulls away from me, from the grip I've had on his shoulders since he started to hyperventilate, and it's too soon to suit me, but I let him go because what else can I do? When he steps toward Simon's desk and the closed file, though, it's all I can do to keep from pulling him back to my side.

"Please, tell me I didn't see what I thought I did?" He's practically humming with nervous tension as he gestures toward the now closed file. "Please, tell me Lash isn't back."

"Lash is dead!" It comes out a little more gruffly than I intended, but the look that Blair throws me over his shoulder is tolerant, maybe even a little indulgent, so I guess he understands.

"I know that. Now." The last is muttered almost under his breath and he shivers a little. "It just took me a couple of minutes to process that. So, what do we have here? A copycat?"

"Looks like it." Simon's rubbing his temples, he probably has a headache the size of mine building in his skull. "A copycat who knows his facts, from the look of it." He studies Blair closely for a minute, I can see that he's mentally sizing him up, trying to determine if Blair's really ready to hear the facts of this case. Something he saw must've reassured him, because he's turning to Connor now. "What've you got so far?"

"The victim's name was DJ Everts." Megan's flipping through her notes now, "Lived at 307 Hopper, apartment 106. He's got a narcotics record. Possession with intent to sell."

"Did any of his neighbors see anything?"

Hopper, huh? Not surprised he has a record. From the look on Simon's face as he asks his question, I'd say he wasn't either.

"Wait a minute, he was a drug dealer?" Sandburg's pulse is picking up as he looks from me to Simon and back again, like he's waiting for us to make the connection. "Adam Walker."

Shit. "Lash's first victim. He was a drug dealer."

"Right, right, exactly." Blair looks pleased and I can't help returning his smile. "So, if this guy's trying to repeat Lash's pattern his next victim should be a musician. Or more specifically, a drummer."

"That's just great." Simon's growling as he reaches for the phone. "And just how many drummers are there in the Cascade city limits?"

"Too many." I mutter under my breath. "There's no way we're going to be able to talk to all of them."

"Do we have any other choice?" Connor asks.

"Not really." Simon is shaking his head in disgust as he reaches for the phone. "Jim, I want you and Connor to start checking out the clubs. Talk to as many of the musicians as you can. Maybe we can get a lead on this psycho before anyone else has to die."

"Uh, Simon," Blair clears his throat and looks a little unsure as Simon focuses on him, "you might want to start with the bands working at Club Doom."

I wonder what's going on in Simon's office. Whatever it is, the captain sure as hell doesn't look happy. Neither do Ellison or Connor for that matter. And Sandburg looks downright ghostly.

Looking at the floral box I just signed for, I hope these'll perk Hairboy up. I know the rest of the squad room's going to enjoy the ribbing he'll get over having flowers delivered to the station.

I wonder who the lovely lady is. Sandburg hasn't mentioned any new conquests lately and Ellison doesn't let him anywhere near forensics alone anymore, so it can't be Sam or that crazy Welles chick. Guess Hairboy's been holding out on us. He's got to know there's no way I'm letting him get out of here without spilling. No way at all.

Fuck. What does it take to get this all to go away? To just get a little fucking peace for a change. Don't we deserve that? Haven't we been through enough? And what the hell is Brown grinning at?

"Hey, Hairboy, who's the lucky lady?"

Blair's looking at H like he's grown another head. "Huh? What're you talking about?"

"The flowers." Brown points at the white box sitting on my desk. "Who sent the flowers? And what'd you have to do to get them?"

Nice. Real subtle, H. Just what I need to deal with, another rider in the never-ending rollercoaster that is Sandburg's love life. And no, I'm not jealous. Not in the least bit. Not much.

Blair's still keyed up about the pictures he saw, he's trying hard not to show it, trying to convince us, and himself, that making plans to stop this killer was enough to calm him. But I can hear the pounding of his pulse as he brushes past me to stand in front of the desk.

"Who would send me flowers?" He's rubbing his chin and looking at me like I should have the answers.

"I don't know, Chief, why don't you open the damn things." I shove them out of the way and drop into my chair, not watching to see what he does with them. See, no jealousy here. Just cool, calm and collected. I don't care who sent him flowers.

A quiet gasp and a strangled, "Jim," change my mind pretty damn quick, and I look over to see Blair's hand shake as he points toward the box and the dozens of yellow carnations inside of it.

Damn it. God, damn it. This is a police station. A God damned fucking police station. He should be safe here. No one should be able to get to him here. How the hell did this get in here?

"Jim, you better take a look at this." Blair hands me the card, being careful to hold it by the edges.

Who are you now?

That's what I'd like to know, you sick fuck. Just who the hell are you and where can I find you?

"Yellow carnations," Blair mutters, distractedly, as he looks down at the flowers. "Rejection and disdain. I wonder who or what he's rejecting."

"Does it matter?" I growl back at him. "All that matters is we catch this son-of-a-bitch and put him away for good."

"I know, I know." Blair looks up at me and the fear in his eyes is so clear that it's all I can do to keep from pulling him to me. "But maybe if we know what he's thinking, who he's rejecting, we can get a better idea of how to stop him. Is he rejecting himself, the way Lash did? Is he rejecting me? Blaming me for Lash's death maybe?"

I don't like the direction these questions are taking, so I decide it's time to change the subject, or at least take a wide-berth around it. "Does anyone know where these came from?" Several detectives cringe and look away as I bark. At this rate I should alienate the entire department by Wednesday.

"I signed for them." Brown's looking a little concerned as he glances from Blair's pale face to my angry one. "What's wrong?"

"Where'd they come from?"

"Some kid delivered them about ten minutes ago. While you were all in Simon's office." He's looking at Blair again, worried. "What's going on? Are you all right, Sandburg?"

"Not really." Blair fingers one of the flowers, distractedly, before meeting Brown's eyes.

Brown looks like he wants to say something else, but I don't have time for niceties right now, so I cut him off before he got the first word out. "What did he look like? Do you know what florist he was supposed to be with?"

"He was a kid, about nineteen, maybe twenty, short brown hair, brown eyes. A little taller than Sandburg." Brown stops, rubs his chin like he's trying to concentrate. "Sorry, I wasn't paying much attention, too busy thinking about what Hairboy might've done to get them. I didn't really notice much else. But he would've had to sign-in at the front desk."

Right. The sign-in desk. I grab my jacket and turn to Sandburg. "Come on, we'll go check the log and then swing by the florists if they've got the name."

"Um, actually, why don't I stay here while you do that?" He's gesturing toward the computer while I'm trying to stop my heart from pounding out of my chest. "While you're checking out the florist, I can run a check on all of Lash's known associates. See who was working at the hospital while he was there, find out the details of his escape, if he was close to any of the other patients . . ."

Blair's still talking, but I can't hear it over the blood rushing through my ears, memories of coming home to find the loft trashed, terrified I was going to find Blair drowned, staring up at me through blank eyes, flood back. There's no way, no way in hell, I'm leaving him here without me. No way he's going anywhere without me.

"Forget it, Sandburg. You're coming with me. I'm not letting you out of my sight until this is over." There, I said it, and I think it went well, because now Blair's giving me the same look everyone else in the bullpen is. At this rate I may finish before Wednesday.

Forget it, Sandburg. You're coming with me. I'm not letting you out of my sight until this is over.

What does he think I am? A dog on a leash that he can just pull behind him whenever he chooses? And what the hell does he think I'm going to do about my classes? Because if he thinks I'm canceling them or letting him stand in the corner and intimidate my students, he can just think again.

Man, just when I thought things were getting better. I know we're still not communicating, still not talking about the problem, but things felt better, after this weekend, after lunch. Now he's instantly back to `you're not a cop, Sandburg', `I know what's best for you, Sandburg'. The man could seriously make me learn to hate my last name.

All right, I'm probably being unfair. I know he's frustrated and worried; so am I. Especially after the florist's was a bust. I just wish he could come out and say it, instead of snapping at me and acting like it's my fault.

God, I hope it's not my fault.

I have to stop that. Intellectually, I know it's not my fault. I do. I know that if it wasn't me, wasn't Lash, this psycho would find something or someone else to fixate on. Still find a reason to hurt people, to kill them. But on an emotional level, it scares the crap out of me because all I can think is, what if it is my fault? What if DJ Everts would still be alive if Lash had killed me? What about the next victims? God, I hope there aren't anymore. Please let us find this one in time.

I'm not sure how long Jim's been staring at me as I turn and realize we're in front of the loft. He's got this expression on his face, sad, contemplative, like his thoughts are too heavy for him to shoulder. And once again I wonder what we're doing to each other. Maybe it was a mistake to come back to the loft. Maybe it was a mistake to come back at all.

Don't fidget. Don't fidget. Don't . . . Damn it, my leg is twitching. Stop that. Relax. Take a deep breath and relax. This is just another assignment. No big deal. So, it's the one that could make or break my career, make the higher ups notice me and get me off that beat I've been walking for the last 10 months. No big deal.

Captain Banks is standing and making his way to the door, so I peer around him into the bullpen and spot them: Ellison and his partner. Ellison's partner's not a cop, which is pretty surprising considering Ellison's reputation and closure rate. I've heard a lot of rumors about them, they're lovers, they live together but aren't lovers, mess with Sandburg and Ellison will hide your body so well no one will ever find it, Sandburg's got something on Ellison, or Banks, and that's why they put up with him. Everyone heard about the argument they had in the bullpen last month. I wonder if any of it's true. Guess I'll be finding out soon enough.

They both look upset as Captain Banks calls them into his office. That's just what I need, starting off this assignment with Ellison already in a bad mood.

"What is it, sir?" Ellison's tone is practically insubordinate, which surprises me, because from everything I've heard, he has a pretty good working relationship with Captain Banks.

"Jim, Sandburg, I'd like you to meet patrolman Jason Spencer." You know that term warning tone? Captain Banks just gave it a whole new definition.

"Hey, how do you do?" I almost miss the hand that Sandburg extends to me as I watch Ellison stare down his captain. "Blair Sandburg."

Standing quickly, I reach out and take his hand. His grip's a lot firmer than I would've suspected. "Fine, thanks. Nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you. Both of you." Oh great, now I'm babbling. That should really impress Ellison.

Ellison grunts an acknowledgment of my presence before turning back to the captain. "What did you want us for, Simon?"

Here it comes. My part in this drama.

"Patrolman Spencer, here, has been assigned as Sandburg's protection at the university."

"WHAT? No way, Simon! No way!" Sandburg throws me a sympathetic glance as I wince at Ellison's volume. I don't know what reaction I was hoping for, but that's definitely not it. "I'm not letting some rookie guard my partner."

"Jim. . ." There's that tone again, only this time Ellison's completely ignoring it.

"There's no way, Simon. No way." He's pacing now, looking like he wants to punch something. Or someone. "This bastard is too dangerous. We know he's already killed at least one person."

"Jim. Jim. ELLISON, SIT DOWN!" That one does the trick, Ellison drops into the nearest chair, his jaw snapping shut audibly. That had to hurt, it just had to. "You too, Sandburg."

Sandburg throws his hands up in a `what'd I do' gesture, but sits on the edge of the table behind him. "Ah, Simon, I hate to agree with Jim," he's flashing me an apologetic smile now, "but I can't have a police officer in my classroom intimidating my students. And I don't even want to think about what the university would have to say about it."

"That's the beauty of this, Sandburg." The captain's leaning back in his chair and pointing at me now. I'm just trying not to blush. I'm sure that would raise Ellison's confidence level. "How old does Spencer look to you?"

"Um, I don't know, twenty? Twenty-one?" Sandburg looks at me with a little shrug and turns back to the captain. "Why?"

"Because he's going to enroll in your class as a student." The captain's positively beaming now, looking quite pleased with himself and his plan. Ellison's just glaring.

"Wait a minute? What?" Sandburg's hands are moving again as he makes a time out motion. "You want to put him in my class? Simon, we're almost halfway through the term. There's no way he could start the class now."

"Half over? Sandburg, you just started teaching this class three weeks ago."

"Simon, it's an accelerated summer session. The classes are only six weeks long." Great, there goes my big undercover assignment.

"Can't you just say he transferred in from another section or something?" I hold my breath while Sandburg seems to think it over. "That would explain why he needs to spend extra time with the instructor after class, right?"

"Simon, this isn't grammar school. You can't start a class in the middle of the semester and there are no other summer sections of Anthro 101." He thinks for a minute before snapping his fingers and turning to me. "What about a student assistant? Do you mind filing?" I can't help sighing in relief. File? Hell, I'll wash his car and polish his shoes if it'll get me on this assignment.

"Filing's not a problem." I'm quick to assure him. "And it would give me a lot better reason to be hanging out in your office after class."

This just seems to deepen Ellison's scowl. He's been quiet the last few minutes and just as I'm beginning to wonder if this going to work out after all, Ellison's on his feet again, pacing.

"Damn it, Simon, I still don't like this. What the hell's he going to do if this nut makes a grab for Sandburg?"

Okay, now that was a little insulting. I may not be the great James Ellison, but I'm a damn good cop. I didn't get this assignment because of my pretty face. I got it because they trust me to do the job. And no matter how good Ellison is, I don't need to take his crap.

I'm just about to state this when Sandburg shakes his head and looks at Ellison in disgust. "Jim, you need to lay off. Simon's just trying to come up with something that'll work for everyone. And Spencer doesn't deserve this kind of crap from you. Come on." This last is addressed to me. "I need to get over to the university or I'm gonna be late for class. You can ride with me."

Well, I guess that settles that. I jump to my feet and follow him out the captain's office, trying not to notice the angry stare on Ellison's face as I pass. Lord, please don't let me blow this one.

"Blair, dear, there you are."

Groan. Damn, I almost made a clean break. Stopping just inside the doorway, I fix a smile on my face and turn to watch as Vera hurries down the hall waving a stack of paper at me. She's a sweet lady, really, it's just that sometimes I don't think she realizes I already have a mother.

"Hey, Vera, what's the rush?" I adjust the strap on my backpack and lean against the doorframe, knowing this is going to take a while. I should probably call Jim and tell him I'm going to be a little late, but I'm still a little ticked about that stunt he pulled in Simon's office Tuesday morning. And he knows I've got Jason watching my back from the minute I step out of the loft in the morning until I get to the PD in the afternoon. So, he can wait and . . . What? Worry? I almost sigh, wondering if that's what he's doing or if it's just annoyance over what he perceives as my class holding up his investigation.

"Hello, dear. I just wanted to make sure you got your mail before you left today." She's slightly out of breath from chasing after me and I feel a bit guilty for trying to avoid her. "You've quite a stack in your box."

"Thanks, Vera. That's really sweet of you." I take the pile and begin to sort through it, trying to pick the useful information from the flyers for faculty events.

"Are you all right, dear? You don't look like you've been getting much sleep." She places a thin, dry hand on my forehead and tsks softly. "You really need to get more rest, Blair."

"I'm fine, Vera, really." Pasting on a smile I don't really feel, I start backing slowly through the doorway, trying not to make my escape attempt too obvious, but still trying to escape nonetheless. "No rest for the wicked, you know."

She's shaking her head now and I can see the lecture building in the back of her mind. Definitely time to exercise the better part of valor. "Thanks for these! I really appreciate your looking after me like this." I gesture back to her with the pile and step out into the open air.

"Oh, it was really nothing, dear." Vera's blushing now, making me feel like even more of a heel for trying to get away so quickly. "Now, go on, I know you've still got a full day ahead of you. But you take care of yourself, you hear me? Try to get some rest this weekend."

"Thanks." With that, I escape into the bright early afternoon sunshine and dump the flyers in the nearest trashcan.

"There you are." Jason's got that same worried look Jim usually has on his face. I wonder if there's a page in the police manual that explains exactly how they're supposed to look to make you feel like a guilty heel.

"Sorry, Vera caught me at the door with some mail." I wave the stack at him before shoving it in my backpack. "Let's get out of here before Jim sends a black and white to check on us."

Jason laughs hard and slaps me on the back as we head toward the Volvo. "He is a little over-protective, isn't he?"

"You have no idea, man, none at all."

"Decided to grace us with your presence today, huh, Sandburg?" Does my mouth even bother to check with my brain before this stuff comes out? I've been sitting around all morning, missing Blair, worrying about him, and what's the first thing I do when he walks in? Start insulting him. Smooth technique, Ellison. It's no wonder you've got to beat them off with a stick. "I'm sorry, Chief, I didn't mean that like it sounded."

"Sure, whatever." He brushes it aside with a wave of his hand, but I can tell by his tone that he's hurt. I'm trying to come up with a way to make him understand that I really am sorry, when he pulls a stack of mail out of his backpack and makes it pretty clear he's ignoring me.

I guess I deserve that.

Several more minutes go by as I get together the list of clubs I want to check out this afternoon. Hopefully today we'll hit one where someone recognizes DJ Everts' photo. We need some kind of break on this case, and I don't mean just the police department. Blair and I need a break, something solid to go on so we can put this behind us and get back to the business of living. Get back to salvaging what's left of our relationship before I let the most important person in my life slip through my fingers.

"Jesus, Jim, look at this." Blair's hands are shaking as he offers a piece of paper to me.

What I see when it drops down in front of me, sends me reeling.

"Jim? Jim, come on back, man. Come on." I can feel Blair's hand on my back, rubbing small, comforting circles, a warm circle of sanity amidst the chaos. His voices tickles my ear and I can hear the note of panic held tightly in check. What the hell happened? "Please, man, don't do this to me. Not in the middle of the bullpen. Come on, Jim."

"I'm all right." I manage, barely, to choke out those three words as I focus on the newspaper article and accompanying picture in front of me. Blair lying cold on the ground next to the fountain, even in the grainy photo you can tell that he's too still as I lean over him and try to push air into his lungs. The headline says "Rainier Grad-student killed in freak on-campus accident" and beneath it someone has written in blood-red ink: Who are you now?

I think I'm going to be sick.

And then I am.

"Jim? Jim, man, open the door." God, I hope he's all right. Maybe I shouldn't've shown him the article. I mean, it's creepy, yeah, seeing myself laid out like that, but I knew it had to have something to do with the case and . . . Well, I just didn't expect Jim to freak like that. First he goes into the deepest zone-out I can remember since . . . ever, really. It took me almost twenty minutes, in a room full of cops, to bring him out of it. Then he took one more look at the picture and ran straight for the men's room. Now the door is locked and I have no idea what to do. God, what if he's zoned again? Should I keep knocking? Try to get through to him? Get Simon? A janitor?

"Jim, man, if you don't open the door I'm going to go get Simon and . . ." I hear the lock turn over and the knob turns easily in my hand.

Jim's standing in front of the mirror, looking pale and drawn, and I lock the door behind me before stepping up behind him. "Jim?"

"I'm all right, Chief. I just . . ." He's shivering now and I have a fleeting desire to wrap my arms around him and just hold on tight. "It just caught me by surprise. I didn't know, I mean, I should've guessed it would, but I didn't know it made the papers. Hell, I don't think I even saw a paper until we got back from . . ."

I wave a hand, to let him know I understand. And because I really don't want to hear the name of that place again, not with the memories it evokes of Jim in Alex's arms. "I understand, believe me, it threw me too. So, not an image I need burned in my mind, man."

Jim's stopped shaking and now he's just looking at me, really intently, like he could see inside of me. It's disturbing and thrilling at the same time, sending my pulse higher. If he's listening, I hope he's just chalking it up to the stress of the moment.

"Are you all right?" His voice is low and so full of concern that I'm not sure what to make of it for a moment. I'm torn between disbelief, anger, and a rush of love so deep it almost pulls me under.

I drown and what do I get? Jokes about nurses and back rent. I crawl out of my hospital bed to follow him after the bitch that put me there and what happens? She gets kissed and caressed, while I get tied up and forgotten. But, just let some psycho send me a newspaper clipping and now he cares? It's so ridiculous I don't know whether to laugh, cry or slug him.

"Blair?" A warm hand gripping my shoulder makes me realize that I still haven't answered his question.

"I'm fine, Jim." I'm not sure if that's the truth or not, but it seems to satisfy him and he moves away to open the door.

He eyes me carefully from the doorway before nodding. "Guess we should start checking out the clubs on today's list."

Yeah, guess we should.

My head starts pounding before I've even parked the truck. This is the fourth club we've been to today and apparently there's some unwritten law that requires them to play their stereo systems at full blast even before they open. I could hear this one from half a mile away. Without dialing up my hearing.

Sandburg's sitting next to me, his leg twitching with nervous energy, and trying hard not to let me catch him tossing worried stares in my direction. Not that I could blame him. My performance in the bullpen has to have him wondering. But what could I say? Gee, sorry, Sandburg, but seeing the single worst moment of my life repeated in glorious black and white kind of disturbed me. Oh, and by the way, Chief, the reason it was the worst moment of my life is because I love you beyond reason and the thought of facing a life, any kind of life, without you scared me shitless.

It might be a good way to see just how fast and how far Sandburg could run away from me, but it would still leave me just as alone as if he'd died that day. That's something I never want to face. Never want to think about. So, I turn off the truck and start to think about something else, like who decided that torturing a cat makes good music?

"Headache?"

I don't know why, but it always surprises me when he does that. I think he's done it from the first day we met, so it shouldn't shock me so much when he does. I guess I'm just not used to anyone caring enough to notice.

"It's not too bad," I lie, not wanting to talk about, but I can tell he's not buying it.

"Look, why don't you wait out here, where it's a little quieter?" Once again, his hand is a warm comfort on my arm as he looks into my eyes and I resist the urge to take it in mine and bring it to my mouth. Resisting urges. I seem to be doing a lot of that these days. The urge to touch, to hold, to kiss and caress. So many urges, but not one I think would be welcomed by him, and so I continue to resist. Because, hey, holding on to what little I have is better than the risk of losing it all. Isn't it?

"No." I shake off his hand, remove myself from the temptation, and for a fraction of a second I think I see disappointment reflected back at me in those too-blue eyes. But then it's gone and I know it was just wishful thinking on my part. "We've only got three more clubs after this one, then we can go back to the station."

"Jim, there's no reason for you to put yourself through this." He takes for the envelope I've been holding and uses it to motion toward the club. "Wait here and I'll go in and ask around about the picture."

I can't quite contain a snort of derision. He doesn't really think it's going to be that easy, does he? "Forget it, Sandburg, there's no way you're going in there without me." There's no way you're going anywhere without me if I can help it.

"Jim, don't you think this is getting a little ridiculous? We don't even know this guy is after me." He's using his reasonable tone, the one that's supposed to make me realize how right he is. And to give him credit, it usually does. But not this time, not where his safety is concerned. I've taken that for granted too many times in the past and come too close to losing him.

Sandburg's still talking, so I nod patiently and listen to all the reasons why I should stay outside why he dashes in and out of the club. My headache, the dials, the intimidation factor, plenty of people even at this time of day. All good, legitimate reason. None of which I'm buying. So, as soon as he finishes running down his list, I admit that his logic is sound. Then I take the envelope in one hand and his arm in the other and escort him into the club. Problem solved.

The wall of noise that hits me as we walk through the door almost makes me regret my decision. Even hours before the place opens it's loud, smoky and ill lit. Just three more after this, I remind myself. Maybe we'll skip the station and head straight home. There's no way I'm going to get rid of the smell without a shower and change.

Glancing over at Sandburg, he's leaning across the bar, chatting animatedly with the bartender. I have a quick flash of taking that tempting mouth as I press him against the shower wall, hearing needy little cries pouring out of him as I drive us both over the edge. Damn, it's hot in here.

Shaking off the image, I catch up with Sandburg as he thanks the man and starts over to where the band is rehearsing on the stage. "Well?"

"He hasn't seen anything, but he said he probably wouldn't have, not with all the crowds and the band playing." Blair waves toward the stage. "I figured we'd try asking the band since they're here already."

"Good idea." The band members eye me suspiciously as we approach and I ignore Sandburg's smirk, opting for pulling out the photo of DJ Everts. Besides, intimidation or not, at least they stopped torturing that poor cat when they saw me coming.

"Here, man, give me that." Blair snatches the picture and climbs up onto the stage, approaching the bassist with his friendliest, non-threatening smile, and shows him the picture. "Hey, man, we're looking for this guy, or someone who looks like him. Have you seen him around?"

"I see a lot of people." He barely glances at the photo, preferring to glare at me instead. "What's it to you?"

I flash my badge. "We're looking for someone who looks like him in connection with a murder." My eyes roam over the group as I let this sink in, that's when it strikes me that something's wrong, missing. There are drums, but no drummer. "Where's your drummer?"

The bassist exchanges a quick, guilty, look with a greasy-haired singer before shrugging. "Don't know, maybe he stepped out for a smoke."

"Look, man, I know you've got no reason to trust us, but we're not looking to bust your friend. If he's with this man, his life could be in danger." I can see him wavering under the sincerity of Blair's plea. "Please, just tell us where he went."

"Can I see the picture again?" He looks a lot closer this time, studying the face closely. "Yeah, this looks like the guy Tommy left with. Said he was just popping over to his place to grab some cash so he could score some quick blow. But it's just around the corner and that was about an hour ago."

Just around the corner. Could it be that easy? We get the drummer's address and call Simon on our way over.

Too late. I felt a surge of hope when I heard we were only an hour behind this psycho, but the condition of the place makes it obvious that a struggle went on here and somebody lost, big time. I'm trying real hard not to think about that struggle, trying not to notice how much the place looks like the loft did that night when Jim brought me home from the hospital.

I remember feeling more frightened and secure that night than I ever had in my life. What had happened, the depths of Lash's sickness, having it focused on me, it scared the hell out of me. Still does. But against all odds, Jim pulled some kind of miracle that night and found me. Found me when nobody should've been able to. I wasn't sure what that meant, I'm still not, but I know how it made me feel when Jim came barreling through those doors, gun drawn. And then later when he came back up those stairs, dirty and sore, gently unchaining me and making sure I was all right. It made me feel warm, safe, protected. Loved.

Sometimes I wonder what I wouldn't give to return to those few days afterward, when everything Jim was feeling was out there in the open for me to see --before years of military training and life's hard little lessons took over and that wall of reserve was back in place. Not as firm and impenetrable as before, but still there. It took years of hard work to chip away at it and catch brief shining glimpses of the soul that lay behind it. Work that was all washed away by one foolish decision to hold off on telling Jim about Alex until I could introduce them in a controlled environment. There's nothing I wouldn't give to go back in time and relive that moment.

Jim's talking to Simon, and while neither of them are looking at me, I can feel the weight of their attention. I wonder what scheme, for the greater good of Blair Sandburg, they're cooking up between them. The forensics team is swarming all over the place, so now's as good a time as any to suggest to Jim that we head back to the station. I have a feeling it's in my best interest to get him away from Simon as quickly as possible. Before I end up locked in a safe house with some new ankle jewelry.

"Jim?" Either he didn't hear me or he's ignoring me, since he's a Sentinel and can hear a pin drop across the street, I can only assume it's the latter. Wonder what I did now. Clearing my throat, I try again. "Jim! Isn't it about time for that forensics report on the water in Everts' lungs to be back?"

Jim glances at his watch and exchanges a few quick words with Simon before addressing me. "You're right, Chief. I don't think there's anything else we can do here. Let's head back to the station and find out what Welles came up with."

Guess I should be comforted by the fact that he at least remembers to include me in the return trip to the precinct. Apparently, I'm not invisible after all.

Wonderful, a broken blow dryer, a car that wouldn't start and having to spend the entire morning looking for test results that a clerk misplaced weren't enough, now I get a visit from the great white hope: Detective Ellison, himself. My day is truly complete.

I don't know why I ever found that man attractive. He's a self-centered, cold, rude, exclusionary, control freak who doesn't think anyone other than himself can have an original idea. He actually had the gall to have Captain Banks ban me from his crime scenes. Ban me! I'm the head of Forensics, how the hell am I supposed to do my job if I can't go to the crime scenes? And if he calls me Nancy Drew one more time in that derisive little tone of his, I swear I won't be responsible for my actions.

Then there's Blair. I mean, really, what business is it of Ellison's if I want to spend time with his partner? That's right, none! But I get within ten feet of Blair and sure enough Ellison shows up to whisk him away. What the hell does he think is going to happen in the middle of a corridor in the police station? And so what if something did? Blair's his unofficial partner, not his property. He doesn't get a say in who Blair's friends are.

Except, maybe he does, because I don't think I've seen Blair more than four or five times since the night he made me dinner and Warren Chapel escaped from Conover. Every time it's been strictly business with Ellison in tow. That's why I'm a little surprised, maybe even pleased, to see Blair trailing a few feet behind Ellison.

At least, until he stops to say something to Sam, and Ellison reaches back to grab his arm and steer him forward. Why does Blair put up with this? I don't understand it. I really don't.

"Welles, have you got the analysis of the water in Everts' lungs back yet?" Good afternoon to you, too, detective.

A smart comment is just on the tip of my tongue when I notice just how pale Blair looks. This is the first time I've seen him since the accident at the university. I tried, twice, to see him in the hospital. The first time they told me that Detective Ellison had left a guard at the door with a strict list of the only people allowed in. Big surprise, I wasn't on it. The next time I tried, Blair had already checked himself out, against doctor's orders, as I understood it. From the looks of him, he should probably still be there.

"Welles?" Ellison waves his hand impatiently in front of my face and I finally look away from Blair, to realize that Ellison's not looking much better. He's almost as pale and if that muscle in his jaw is any indication, he's carrying a major load of stress. I actually find myself having a tinge of sympathy for him.

"Yeah, I've got them right around . . . here!" I pull the correct folder out of my desk and hand it to Ellison. "According to the salinity tests, Everts was not drowned in his bathtub. I took another look at Lieutenant Plummer's notes from the first case and went down to Alfred's pond and collected a sample there. Perfect match."

"Perfect match?" Blair grows two shades paler he digests this information. "Stupid. Stupid. God, I am so stupid. Why didn't I think of that? He's trying to recreate Lash's pattern, of course he'd go to the pond. Damn it."

I start to ask Blair why he would think it's his fault, after all, Ellison's the detective here, when I notice the way Ellison's hand is hovering just over Blair's shoulder. Like he wants to touch him, but is afraid. That's strange, Ellison used to have his hands all over Blair. When did that change?

Dropping his hand to his side, Ellison finally speaks, and I'm stunned by the look of tenderness on his face. Something tells me it's too bad Blair doesn't see it as well.

"It's not your fault, Chief. You're not the lead investigator on this case; hell, you're not even a cop. You shouldn't have to be worrying about this." He closes the file and looks up at me. "This is good work, Welles, mind if I keep this for a while?"

I'm so stunned by the compliment that I wave them away without even a token protest over my lost file.

I check over my `to do' list again, making sure I've got stakeouts and patrol cars placed in all the right places: Alfred's pond, the warehouse Lash used on the docks, Tommy Thayer's apartment, the loft. I'm tempted to station someone outside Sandburg's office and to hell with the consequences, but I don't think Simon would go for that anymore than Blair would. I know my paranoia is showing and I'm sure Blair's got a hundred theories as to why I'm acting like a jerk, territorial imperatives, primal instincts, some kind of Sentinel/Guide bond. I don't care what excuse he makes to himself for my behavior, as long as he never stumbles across the fact that it's love, plain, simple and infinitely complex. I think that's the only thing left that could drive him from my side. Something not even death could do.

"Chief, you about ready to get out of here?" I let my hand drift over his shoulder, not realizing that the simple pat has turned into a caress, until he looks up at my hand, eyes wide, and follows the trail of my arm to my face.

The flicker of knowledge in his eyes stuns me and I pull my hand back, like I've been stung, before he can fully process what's happened. Once again, I see something akin to disappointment in his face and wonder if I'm making the biggest mistake of my life by not telling him how I feel.

"Blair?" I reach out to touch him again, but it's too late. Whatever passed between us is gone and he's moving silently away from me.

It's been two days of what passes as normal in Major Crime, since Ellison and Sandburg got the lead on who our copycat's next victim was. Forty-eight frustrating hours without another lead. Days with no sign of Tommy Thayer. Hours of watching the strain in my best team grow. Something's got to give, and soon, or I'm afraid the split that Barnes created will grow into chasm neither of them can cross.

However, the knowledge that something needs to be done still gives me no clue as to what. I've considered locking them in an interrogation room until they talk, really talk, to one another and fix this thing. But knowing the two of them as I do, I figure there's a better chance that they'd both die of starvation before opening up about it.

So, I guess that makes my next step: divide and conquer. And my first victim just walked into the bullpen. Time to take Detective Ellison out for coffee and polite conversation. Maybe I should call Daryl and tell him where I keep my will first. Just to be safe.

"Jim," Simon's been toying with his coffee since we got here, looks like he's finally going to get to the point of this little excursion, "you mind telling me what's going on between you and Sandburg these days?"

That was pleasantly blunt and it takes me a couple of stunned seconds to realize that Simon doesn't really know anything, he's just worried. Equilibrium recovered, I decide to feign ignorance. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

"Don't give me that sir crap, Ellison. You know damn well what I'm talking about." Simon's starting to look a little steamed now, can't say I blame him, but that doesn't mean I'm about to tell him things I can't even tell Blair. "The two of you have been tiptoeing around each other like you're both waiting for a bomb to go off. Jim," I can hear Simon's concern as he leans forward, "the first time you brought Sandburg into my office I thought he was some flaky kid who wouldn't last a week in our world. By the end of that day, I had to admit that the kid had guts. I've known seasoned cops who wouldn't have come back after Kincade took over the station. Yet, Sandburg did."

I watch mutely as Simon takes a drink of his lukewarm coffee, pausing to inspect the rim of his cup again. "And, I'm ashamed to say, even after that, I took him and his contributions to our cases for granted. I looked at the surface instead of the man beneath. But even with all that, it didn't take me long to see what a change he made in you or the friendship that, improbable as it seemed, developed between you. I'd hate to see that end because the two of you were afraid to open up and talk about what's really bothering you."

"God, Simon, you're right." I rub a hand across my face, trying to think of a way to tell Simon what he needs to hear, without giving away too much. "It's not the same, it hasn't been since I threw him out, maybe even before that. The problem is, I have no idea how to get it back. I'm not even sure Sandburg wants to. Jesus, Simon, I threw him out of his home, accused him of betraying me, let that bitch murder him. And then, there's what happened in Sierra Verde."

"What did happen down there, Jim?"

I can feel Simon's eyes boring into me, but I'm saved from answering by a ringing cell phone. They've found another body.

No matter what they tell you, it never really gets any easier to look at dead bodies. I don't care how long you've been a cop. You just get better at hiding it, stuffing the emotions down deep where you don't have to deal with them until you get home. Sometimes you stuff them so deep they never see the light of day. But they're still there, just waiting for the right time to launch a sneak attack.

I wonder if that's what just happened to Ellison. I know how long he's been a cop and what he did before becoming one. I've seen him at more crime scenes then I care to remember, game face always firmly in place. Until today.

He just stepped out of the bathroom to make way for the coroner's people and he looks whiter than the corpse. Something shook him, bad. I can't believe it's the dead guy, it wasn't pretty by any means, but we've all seen worse before breakfast. For a brief moment, I consider going over, asking if he's all right. But knowing Ellison, my concern would be unwelcomed.

I finally pull my eyes away from Ellison and search out my partner, knowing he's somewhere near. Ever since he signed for those flowers, H has been taking this case pretty seriously. He blames himself for not preventing something he couldn't possibly have known about. Ellison and Sandburg didn't even know about it until Connor came in with the photos, but try explaining that to my partner.

Not that I blame him; he likes Sandburg. I can't think of anyone who really knows the kid that doesn't. And it's all too soon after that morning at the fountain, after we all thought we'd lost him for good. The thought of some psycho, some psycho who drowns people, after Sandburg, strikes too close to the bone.

Not wanting to dwell on that morning, or on the implications of our current case, I turn my attention back to those around me. Ellison, looking a little more in control, is watching as Captain Banks reams out the two uniforms assigned to watch the building. He wants to know how the hell someone got past them with a dead body. I try to drum up some sympathy for them, I've been on the receiving end of the Captain's anger before and it's never pleasant, but somehow I can't find it within me to feel sorry for them. There's too much at stake here to accept that kind of bungling.

"Yo, Rafe, you ready?" My wandering partner has reappeared, looking anxious, following the body out.

Peering through the sudden summer rainstorm that sprang up while we were inside, I curse the umbrella I was sure I wouldn't need and dash out after my partner.

"Thanks, Dr. Sandburg, I really, really appreciate this." Norm's cramming books and notes into his overstuffed backpack, trying to fit just one more thing into a bag that's never going to be big enough. I know I've gone through my share of backpacks, hoping to find one that would hold all my stuff. Trouble is, you just keep getting more stuff.

"It's no problem, Norm." I hold back a smile as he fumbles with the zipper, spilling half the contents. "Here, let me help you with that. And it's Blair, I'm just a teaching assistant, remember?"

"Right, Mr. Sandburg." He finally gets everything safely secured in his bag and starts for the door.

"Blair." I repeat patiently.

"Yeah, right, Blair." Norm glances at me shyly and clears his throat. "I really appreciate the help you gave me. I'm sure the references section will be up to Dr. Peters' standards now."

"You're just lucky I took Peters when I was an undergrad." I still shudder over the memory of long cold nights stuck in the library investigating some obscure reference he insisted my paper needed. "Trust me, it does get easier."

"I guess." He's starting to look a little down. "I just wish I was more like you."

I can't hold back the snort of amusement that brings. "Norm, man, there are times I wouldn't wish my life on my worst enemy. Are you coming to the study group Friday?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

"I'll see you there, then." With this I gently maneuver him out the door and close it firmly behind him. Man, can that kid talk or what?

"You're really good at this, you know."

Jason's comment surprises me and I stop halfway back to my desk. "Good at what?"

"This teaching, the anthropology stuff." He leans against a cabinet, that like Norm's backpack, just doesn't seem quite big enough to hold all that it should, and waves toward the door. "You can tell those kids are really enjoying themselves and learning at the same time. Hell, I'm learning and I didn't know an anthropologist from a botanist a week and a half ago."

I feel my face flush with pleasure. It's been a long time since anyone bothered to comment favorably on my teaching skills, even longer since that anyone was connected with the police department. "Thanks, but I learn just as much from them as they do from me. I've just been lucky to get a good class."

"It's more than that, they're good because they know you care." Jason's smiling now, looking at me with a kind of amazement. "I'm serious, how many professors do you know that would extend their office hours this much, just so their students could get term paper help in another class?"

"Yeah, but he is in one of my classes and I have taken Peters' courses in the past, two of them. Helping out the students is just part of the job." I shrug, not sure how to take the compliment. I am just doing my job, the way I think it should done. "Speaking of which, I think Norm was the last appointment for the day. Let's get out of here before anyone else decides to drop in."

"Are you heading back to the station?"

I tuck the current stack of blue books into my backpack and range about for my keys before answering. "No. Jim's planning on questioning some friends of Tommy Thayer's tomorrow. I'm going to try and get all of these graded tonight, so I can cut out as soon as office hours are over tomorrow."

Jason grabs his own backpack, hitching it over his shoulder, and looks a little worried. "Listen, speaking of Friday, I talked to my sister, there's no way she's going to let me out of the rehearsal dinner. That's not going to screw up your plans for the study session, is it?"

"No, of course not." I keep my voice level, giving thanks that the only human lie detector I know is nowhere to be found at the moment. "In fact, I already discussed it with Jim and Simon. They're going to try and get someone to hang out in the library, undercover."

"Great." Jason sounds relieved.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to figure out why I just lied about this. Jim and Simon don't have any protection arranged for me, hell, they don't even know about it. Okay, it's stupid, I know, I shouldn't be planning on running around without a guard when there's a psycho on the loose, especially one who probably has my name at the top of his hit list. But it's a crowded, well-lit library, full of people who know me. What could go wrong?

Yikes. Forget I said that. I send a silent appeal upward. That is the kind of fate I seriously don't need to be tempting right now.

"Hey, you know if Ellison's planning on being late tonight?"

"No, not as far as I know. Why?" I take another glance around the office, trying to be sure I haven't forgotten anything while I wait for his answer.

"I'm supposed to be at the tux shop at 6:00 for a fitting." He shakes his head and looks uncomfortable. "But, you know, if Ellison's running late, well, I can't just abandon my post, can I?"

"Oh man, you are so bad." Grinning at my mental picture of Jason squirming his way through the fitting, I lock the door behind us. "You wouldn't do that your poor mom, now would you?"

"No. I guess not." He looks a little frightened at the thought. I met his mom the other night when she had Jason bring me over for dinner. She's a formidable lady. I wouldn't want to let her down either. Or piss her off.

"Is Stacey making your mom completely crazy yet?" I should probably be watching where I'm going, but Jason's family is just so damn normal that I can't help but be fascinated with it. Even at dinner the other night, with all the wedding plans going on, it was so Father Knows Best it was almost surreal.

"Crazy doesn't even begin to cover it. I think Stacey's gone completely over the edge." He's laughing as we approach the stairs. "Do you know how many weird little details there are to planning a wedding? And, apparently, if you mess up even one of them, the whole wedding will be a catastrophe. After last night's tragic discovery that the DJ didn't have a CD of Stacey and Kyle's favorite song, mom cornered me in the den and told me if I ever get married, I better plan on eloping."

Jason's got his imitation of his mother, right down to the finger shaking in my face, down pat and I have to stop long enough to catch my breath before I respond. "Oh man, your poor mom. If it helps any, you can take off if Jim's not home in time. It's no biggie."

"Yes, it is. Forget about my sense of duty and the madman running around, or what Captain Banks and Captain Wilson would do to me." He's shaking his head and planting himself between me and the exit. I wonder if this is another thing they teach at the academy? Because I'm really going to have to get one of those training manuals and find out what the countermoves are. "Ellison would kill me if he came home and found you there alone. Or worse, came home and didn't find you at all. Nope, I'm afraid you're stuck with me for the duration."

Came home and didn't find me at all. A chill works it way down my spine at Jason's casual words and I wonder what Jim thought that first time, when he came home to an empty, broken loft. Would his reaction be any different now?

Bundling up against a cold that's wholly internal, I dash out into the rain after Jason.

He looks so innocent, bounding across the lawn with the one he calls his assistant, trying to beat the rain. But I can see it, the evil that surrounds him. It pours out of him, tainting everything he touches. I wonder how others can be so oblivious to what I see so clearly. There's evil lurking behind his blue eyes; David's filthy thoughts, hidden behind the face of an angel.

But he can't fool me. David could never hide from me.

The sound of Blair puttering around in the kitchen greets me as I top the stairs and trudge down the hall to our door. It's so normal, so a part of everyday life that I could almost push aside the horror of stepping into that bathroom and finding Tommy Thayer's dead eyes staring up at me. But, as comforting as the sounds are, I don't think there's anything that's going to untie the knot that formed in my stomach when I realized this psycho easily evaded a marked patrol car out front and a surveillance team in an unmarked car out back. Not until we catch him, anyway.

Blair looks up with a surprised smile as I step in, and it melts a little more of the frost that seems to have settled into my bones lately. I still wonder sometimes, how it's possible that he doesn't hate me. I would. But he doesn't, despite everything that's happened between us, before this case, before Barnes, and since, he doesn't hate me. I'm not sure which God I should thank for this, but I'm grateful for their benevolence.

"Hey, Jim, hi. You're home early." He wipes his hand on a towel and reaches into the fridge to pull out a couple beers. "I wasn't expecting you for a couple hours."

"Something happened. Something I figured you should probably hear from me first." I can hear his pulse spike as he hands me one of the beers.

"What?"

Unable to face the burst of fear in his eyes, I look away, concentrating instead on the label of my beer. "We found another body. Tommy Thayer."

"Oh God." When I venture another look, he's leaning against the counter with his eyes shut. "I was really hoping . . . God, I know it's stupid, but I was really hoping that somehow we'd find him before it was too late."

"That's not stupid, Chief, I was hoping the same thing." I can't help reaching out to him, the need to touch, however briefly, overcoming the anger and self-loathing I've felt since we left Sierra Verde. What I really want is to pull him into my arms and hold him so tight he becomes a part of me. Instead, I content myself with a quick squeeze of his shoulder.

I think, hope, it helped Blair as much as it helped me, because he opens his eyes and smiles at me for just a second before becoming fascinated with his own beer bottle. "Where'd they find him?"

Now comes the hard part, telling him how badly we screwed up, knowing he'll recognize the implications behind the police department being unable to protect even an empty apartment. "He was in the bathtub. In his apartment."

"His apartment?" The shock I was expecting radiates from his eyes and I can practically see all the connections being made in his brain. "How could that happen? There were units stationed at both entrances."

"We don't know, yet. But Simon's making it a priority to find out." The wheels in his brain are still turning, examining this new bit of information from every angle. "We're looking at the possibility that the killer's renting one of the other apartments in the building."

While I wait for his response, I let my senses run over the loft, trying to place whatever's been niggling at me since I came in. Something seems out of place. Then I hear it, the shower. What's the shower doing on?

"He's moved up the time table. Lash's first three killings were all a month . . ."

"Where's Spencer?" Blair looks at me, confused by my sudden change of topic. "Where is he?"

"In the shower, man." He tilts his head, obviously still not getting it. "Why?"

The shower? I'm not sure which is harder to resist, the abrupt wave of jealousy that washes over me, or the surge of anger at Spencer's carelessness with my partner's life. "He's what? What the hell's he doing in the shower?"

"Jim, chill man. It was pouring when we left the university and he's got to go to a tux fitting." Sandburg's hand on my arm is about the only thing keeping me from marching in there and bashing Spencer's head into the wall. "I told him he could take a shower here and borrow some things from me since he wouldn't have time to change before he went. It's no biggie."

"No biggie? No biggie?" My temper snaps and before I know it, I've got both hands wrapped around Blair's biceps, shaking him slightly. "Your safety is no biggie? How the hell is he supposed to protect you if someone breaks in while he's in the shower?"

"Jim, man, you're blowing this all out of proportion." He's using that `be reasonable' tone again, but there's no way it's going to work here. Not this time. This time, I know I'm right and there's nothing unreasonable about wanting to keep him alive. Doesn't he God damned get that? We're talking about his life.

"Out of proportion, Sandburg?" I tighten my grip, knowing I'm probably leaving bruises, but unable to override my fear enough to let go. "Do you remember what Lash did to you last time? A locked door didn't stop him then, what makes you think it's going to stop the copycat this time."

"Jim, I . . ."

"Something wrong?"

I turn to see Spencer leaning in the doorway, towel wrapped casually around his waist as he uses another to dry his hair. "You're damn right, something's wrong." I let go of Sandburg to focus my anger on the person responsible for it. "What the hell were you doing in the shower? Your job here is to protect Sandburg, not to make yourself at home. Anyone could've gotten to him while you were in there."

"Jim."

I ignore the warning in Blair's voice as I press forward. "Is this the way they taught you to do your job at the academy, patrolman? Or are you just generally incompetent?"

"Jim, cut it out." Sandburg inserts himself between us, the heat from his hand burning a brand into my chest. "You need to lay off this. Jason's doing his job just fine. I'm still here, right? And you know you're not really mad at him, so don't say anything else you might regret later."

Oh God. Ellison looks pissed enough to spit nails, and I can't even blame him because he's right. Here I give Blair my big speech about professional integrity and doing my job, then leave him alone because I want to get to the tux shop on time. I read the original report; I know that David Lash broke into Ellison's apartment to kidnap Blair. This is the last place I should be letting my guard down.

I wait while Blair tries to get Ellison to cool off, wondering if I'm going to find myself reassigned in the morning, or just dead. I'm not sure which would be preferable at the moment. Maybe I should take myself off the case and spare Ellison the trouble. God, how could I be so stupid?

"Listen, Jason, since Jim's here already, why don't you just go ahead and get dressed? I left some clean clothes on my bed." Blair's pushing me toward his room, but I can't seem to pull myself away from Ellison's angry stare. "Nothing spectacular, but it should fit you well enough to get you through tonight."

I finally look away and try to smile at him, but I can still feel Ellison's eyes burning a hole through me. "Thanks, Blair. I appreciate it."

"No problem."

Blair's room is as quirky as he is. Books seem to cover every conceivable surface, at least those not covered with statues and masks and things I don't even have a name for. The bed is a disaster, colorful blankets twisted down at the foot. All and all, except for the native stuff, it looks a lot like my place when my mom hasn't been around in a while.

I dress quickly in the clothes he left me, trying to keep an ear on the conversation going on outside the door, but all I can make out is a vague rumble of voices. By the time I finish and step back out, they're observing a stony silence, neither making eye contact with the other.

"Thanks, Blair." Avoiding Ellison's glare, I gesture at the clothes. "You really saved my life here. Stacey would have my hide if I missed my fitting and I don't even want to think about how uncomfortable it would have been hanging out in wet clothes all night."

"It was nothing, man. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't've been stuck in this position in the first place."

"Maybe. But thanks, either way." Taking a deep breath, I finally turn to Ellison. "Listen, Detective, I'm really sorry about what happened here. I wasn't thinking and . . ."

"And it could've cost my partner his life." Ellison spits out at me.

"Jim." Blair puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me toward the front door. "I'll see you tomorrow around 7:00, okay?"

"Are you sure?" I'm grateful for his support, but I really doubt I'll last longer on this assignment than the time it'll take Ellison to call Captain Banks.

"I'm sure." He tosses a warning glance over his shoulder then turns back to me. "And don't let him scare you. His bark's worse than his bite."

"Okay, thanks." I step outside, almost stumbling over the package lying there. "Hey, looks like you got something." I scoop it up and hand it to Blair before taking off down the stairs.

Ah, shit. Another package. I really, really don't want to open this one. What are the chances that it's a box of cookies from Mrs. Olsen on the second floor? I helped her bring up her groceries the other day and she seemed to really appreciate it. So, I'm sure that's it. She just whipped up a batch of her famous, whatever she's famous for, cookies and brought a box up to me. Then left them without knocking.

It could happen, right?

So, there really isn't any reason why I shouldn't open the box. Except I don't want to. Except that I know there's something in it that's going to keep me up tonight. Except that . . . I'm a complete wuss.

Sighing, I reach for the package, knowing I've got to open it sooner or later, when Jim grabs my hand.

"Don't." He looks a little pale as he reaches for the phone. "You don't want to see what's in there."

"What?" I press closer, wanting to know what set him off, or maybe just wanting to be closer. "Jim, what did you sense? Is it a bomb?"

"No. Not a bomb." The muscle in his jaw looks ready to burst and his knuckles are white around the phone. "Whatever it is, it smells dead."

"Dead?" I swallow hard and let my gaze wander back to the table, scarcely noticing as Jim talks to Simon and asks for a forensics team.

A dead duck. Or duckling to be more precise. Sometimes I wonder about Sandburg. Who the hell else would have something like this wrapped up and delivered to their doorstep? I know the kid doesn't go looking for this kind of stuff, but there's something unnatural about the way it keeps finding him.

The lab techs are just about finished up, they dusted every square inch of the hallway outside the loft, the stair railing, even the elevator buttons. They've finally removed the package and its grisly contents, not a moment too soon. From the look on Jim's face, I'd say he's about thirty seconds from throwing everybody out and packing Sandburg off so far even the kid wouldn't know where he was.

Can't say I blame him, Sandburg looks pretty shook up by all this. He's spent the last half-hour just hovering in the doorway to his room, looking torn between avoiding the goings on and not wanting to be alone. And wherever he is, Jim's never more than three feet away from him, like he wants to keep the kid within arms reach at all times.

"I wonder if he named it Homer." Sandburg's been so quiet since I got here, that his soft question startles me.

"What?" I didn't mean the question to come out as sharp as it did, but Sandburg flinches at it and Ellison pins me with a glare that could melt steel.

"Nothing." He shrugs vaguely and motions to where the last tech has just stepped out. "I just wondered if whoever, the copycat, if he named the duckling Homer before . . ." His voice trails off with another shrug.

"I don't know. I'm not sure I want to know." I admit ruefully. "I just want to put this psycho in a cage where he belongs."

"Or a grave." Jim's utterance is so low that I'm not sure if it was meant for our ears, but as captain I'm not allowed the luxury of letting it slide.

"Do I need to remove you from this case, Detective?" I pin Jim with a gaze that can be just as cutting as his own.

"No, sir." His reply is pure military reflex: eyes forward, back straight, only the tension in his jaw betraying him.

"Then I'd better not hear anymore talk like that, Detective, or you'll find yourself on traffic duty so fast it'll make your head spin. You read me?"

"Yes, sir."

Behind Ellison, I can see Sandburg slumped against his doorframe, eyes closed and suddenly I'm as tired as he looks. "Get some rest. I'll see you both tomorrow."

As I step into the hallway, I can hear Ellison locking the door behind me.

Locking the door behind Simon and the forensics team, all I can think is: thank God. I thought they'd never leave.

Of course, now I'm left alone in the loft with Blair and no idea what to say to him or how to make this better.

"I'm sorry." It doesn't seem nearly adequate, but it's the only thing I can think to say.

"For what?" He looks confused and tired as he slumps against the doorjamb.

"For all of this." I motion toward the closed door. "For the fact that you have to put up with this shit."

"Jim, man, it's not your fault." Blair shrugs and looks away. "If anything, I should be apologizing to you."

"To me?" I can't help the confusion that crosses my face. "What the hell for?"

"For bringing all this to your doorstep, man." He lets out a tired sigh and steps back into his room. "I'm the one this psycho is after. It's my fault you have to deal with this crap at all."

"What are you talking about?" He can't really believe that, can he? But as soon as I enter his room, I can tell by the look on his face that he does. God, how can someone as smart as Sandburg be so wrong about some things. Instead of making the pissy comment, about how stupid he's being, that first sprang to mind, I sit on the bed next to him and take a deep breath.

"Blair," he looks at me a little wide-eyed and surprised when I use his first name, like he's expecting the roof to come caving in, "you know this isn't your fault, right? The only person responsible for it is the psycho doing this."

"I know that." He shakes his head and tries to look away, but I reach out and turn his face back to mine, needing him to see the resolve in my eyes. "In my head, man, I know this doesn't really have anything to do with me. I know that someone this sick was going to find something or someone to fixate on, even if they'd never heard of me. But when people start dying it's really hard to convince my heart of that."

There's nothing I can say, nothing to add to that, so just this once I ignore my head and listen to what my heart tells me. I pull him into my arms and hold on tight.

Lying in bed, I can't help the smile that keeps creeping across my face despite everything that's happened. Having Jim hold me just felt so nice, so right. I just wish the only times it happened didn't seem to involve imminent peril to life and limb.

This is the first time since everything that happened with Alex, that I really feel like Jim's glad I'm still around in more than just a `to protect and serve' kind of way.

There's a light at the end of the tunnel, I think as I drift off to sleep, and it's beautiful.

I can't move. Why can't I move? Where am I?

"Hey, Hairy Blairy, welcome back, man."

Oh God, no. Not him. I know that voice, but it can't be, he's dead.

"Come on, man, open up those baby blues and tell me what you think of the place." I fight the hands that touch my face, pulling away from them as much as my restraints will allow. "Don't be that way, man. I think my new friends really add to the decor."

Swallowing back the bile that rises in my throat, I finally open my eyes, not wanting to see him, not wanting to make it real, but needing to do whatever it will take to get those cold, clammy hands off of me. All around me, the room is dark, filled with vague figures that my eyes can't make out in the dim, drafty room.

Off to one side, I hear a match strike and a wavering light penetrates the gloom. Laughter moves around the room as more candles are lit, but instead of chasing away the gloom they add to the fearful atmosphere.

"So, man, tell me the truth, what do you think?" Lash steps back up to the dentist's chair I can now tell I'm strapped to, waving the candle he holds toward the grotesque figures hanging from the walls. "Don't spare my feelings, man. What do you think?"

As he nears the first one, I begin to make out Susan Fraiser's features, frozen in the last throes of death, staring sightlessly back at me. "See, man, all my old friends are here!" He crows as the candle illuminates each of his victims. "Even the new ones, man. Even the new ones. See how happy they are to be here?"

And there, on the next wall, I see DJ Everts and Tommy Thayer, their mouths twisted up in a strange parody of a smile, lifeless eyes gazing at nothing. The bile I fought off before rises again in the back of my throat, bitter and burning.

I try to listen to the voice in the back of my head that tells me I have to fight him, I have to stay alive until Jim can find me. But there's another voice, one that keeps rising in volume, drowning out the first, asking me if I really think Jim wants to find me.

"Yeah, that's it, baby Blair." Lash pops out of the darkness behind the chair and leans over me, leering. "Just give it up. You know you want to. Jimmy doesn't want you anymore, doesn't need you anymore. No one needs you."

"No!" I finally find my voice. "You're wrong, Jim's my friend. He wants me around."

"Wants you around?" His laugh is harsh and bitter. "Is that why he can't even stand to be near you? To touch you? Face it, Hairy Blairy, your detective doesn't want you around anymore. He doesn't need some flaky college student hanging around, always getting in his way. Wouldn't it be better to just give up? Let me be you. I can be you."

"NO! NO, YOU CAN'T BE ME! YOU CAN'T!" I fight against the bonds that restrain me. I won't let him do this to me. I can't. I know he's wrong; he has to be.

"Oh, Blair." A second voice purrs from the inky blackness. If Lash's voice quickened my pulse with panic, this one steals my breath and numbs me to the bone. "You don't really think that Jim's going to come for you this time, do you?"

The voice draws nearer, low and husky as she steps into the sparse light. I can see it bouncing off the highlights in her golden hair. "You don't think I'm going to let anything stop me this time."

"Alex." The name catches in my throat, caught on my denial. "No. No. It can't be. You're . . . you're . . ."

"Catatonic?" Her musical laughter is at odds with her cold blue eyes. "You silly boy, I was faking. As Jim could've told you, if he cared enough to."

"No, Jim would've told me. He would've . . ."

She grabs a handful of my shirt, pulling me ruthlessly against the chains. "This time you die. This time we make sure you never come back. Isn't that right, darling?" Alex reaches a hand into the darkness, pulling her lover into the circle of light and that's when I know I'm lost. Everything's lost as I watch Jim's lips descend to meet hers.

"Jim, no. Please." I can't stand the pleading tone in my voice, but I have no control over it as I watch my worst nightmare unfold in front of me. "Jim, please, say something to me."

He tears himself away from her long enough to give me a look filled with loathing and disgust. "Is he still here?" Then he nods toward Lash and states calmly, "Why don't you shut him up already?" before returning to Alex's embrace.

Their lips meeting is the last site I see, before plunging head first into the icy waters.

I come full awake in the darkness of the loft, the awareness that something is wrong slamming over me. Immediately I send my senses out, expanding them to fill the space around me, starting with the room below mine, the one that houses the heart of my territory. Blair's pulse is skyrocketing, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs. Jesus Christ.

I'm down the stairs in less time than it takes to make the decision to move. Soft mutters fill the air, but I can't take the time to decipher them. I don't know how I know, but I know I've got to get to him, wake him before it's too late.

"Sandburg?" I smell his sweat, sharp with fear, and feel the wave of heat pouring off of him before I take my first step into the room.

"Jim, no."

Oh God, he sounds so lost, so alone. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Before I have time to decide, to think, Blair stiffens, his breath coming in pained gasps as he struggles against some unseen enemy. And then, with a final gasp, he simply stops breathing.

"SANDBURG, NO! WAKE UP!" I grab him roughly, shaking him, not caring about the bruises I know I'm leaving, until he draws a ragged breath. "That's it, babe, breathe. Just breathe."

"Jim?" Dark eyes, filled with confusion, look up at me, and he struggles a bit in my arms, but I just tighten my hold on him. "Jim, what's going on, man?"

"You had a nightmare." Now that he's awake and calming, I can feel my own heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. "You stopped breathing."

"Huh? What're you talking about?" Blair frees one of his hands and wipes sleepily at his eyes.

"You stopped breathing. You were having some kind of nightmare and you called my name and then . . ." A shudder runs the length of my spine. "You just stopped breathing."

"Jim, man, I was probably just catching my breath." He finally pulls away from me, settling back on the pillows, and I try to ignore the sudden pull in my groin at the sight of his hair fanning out around him. "It was a pretty intense nightmare."

"What was it about?" I study his face, my heart clenching as his eyes slide away from mine.

He shrugs, turning away from me. "Nothing, really. Just some free floating anxiety. Can't even remember most of it now."

I can tell he's lying to me, he never could look me in the eye when he does, but I let it drop. There's not much point getting into this in the middle of night, especially when I'm afraid of the answers I might get. So, I take the coward's way out; retreat.

"Jim." He stops me in the just this side of the French doors and I wait with my hand on the knob. "Sorry about waking you up."

"It's okay." And it is, for now, because this is the least I can do for him, for all he's done for me. The least of what I want to do for him.

Backpack. Shoes. Keys. Slowly, slowly, don't wake the Sentinel, open the door. Slowly, slowly, I don't think he heard me, close the door.

God, I feel like such a jerk sneaking off like this. But I'm not sure I'm ready to face Jim again. Stupid, I know. It was just a nightmare, Jim doesn't even know what it was about, but I still feel the need to slink off, like I'm keeping some dirty little secret.

And maybe I am. Because nightmare aside, there was something so comforting about waking up with Jim's arms around me. Something I don't think I'm ready to think about or question too closely right now.

So, I'm going to bury my wayward thought processes under a ton of research and student outlines and whatever else it takes to get my mind off of it.

I'm just about to rollover and make another attempt at sleeping on my stomach when I hear Blair moving around downstairs. My first impulse is to go down and make sure he's all right. I know we're both still a little shaken by that nightmare and I can't help but think we'd both sleep better if he'd just tell me about it. But I can tell he's taking pains to be as quiet as possible and going down would probably make him feel guilty.

So, I roll over, squashing my pillow into a more comfortable shape and resolve to leave my roommate in peace. Until I hear the front door open, that is. Then all bets are off.

Just where the hell does he think he's going?

I don't bother getting dressed or even grabbing my robe. By the time I get out the door, the elevator doors are closing in front of him. I take the stairs three at a time in my rush to beat it down, which I do, barely.

If I weren't so furious right now, this mad dash might just've been worth it. Because the look of shock on his face as the doors open and he sees me, standing there in my boxers, would be amusing in any other circumstances. Instead of enjoying the moment, however, I take him by the arm, lead him back into the elevator and push the button for the third floor.

Once back in the loft, I point to the couch, again without a word passing between us, and wait until he's seated before I explode. "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?"

"Nothing." He shrinks back into the sofa, looking frail and tired, and I have a small flash of . . . I'm not sure what. Sympathy? Empathy? Something that makes me want to wrap him up and keep him safe, instead of screaming at him. But whatever it is, it's gone before I can identify it, crushed under the weight of my fear.

"Nothing? You were halfway out of the building when I caught you." I congratulate myself on keeping my voice level and calm this time. Well, level anyway. "Where the hell did you think you were going?"

"I couldn't get back to sleep . . ."

"I know." I didn't mean to admit that. It was so soft that if not for the flash of guilt on his face, I might be able to convince myself that I hadn't let it slip.

" . . . and I didn't want to wake you up again, so I thought I'd go to my office and get some work done." He's staring down at his hands now and I wish he'd look at me. I need to see his eyes, everything he thinks and feels is written in their depths, but now they're hooded and dark.

"Jesus, Sandburg," I've lost the accusatory tone, it's late and suddenly I'm just too damn tired for this, "did you forget that there's a lunatic out there looking for you?"

"It's not my turn yet." He sounds weary as he looks up at me. "I'm last, remember?"

"You don't know that. Just because this nut's followed Lash's pattern so far, doesn't mean he'll stick to it."

"Yeah, whatever." Blair stands slowly, looking around the living room like he's lost. "Think I'll try to get some more sleep."

I watch as he steps into his bedroom, then make myself as comfortable as I can on the couch. There's no way I'm getting any further from him than this tonight.

Standing in front of the sink, washing out the blender, I have to restrain the sigh that tries to slip past my lips. We've gone from angry and accusatory last night to stern and uncommunicative this morning. I really hate it when he does this. Yelling I can take, I can give it back, defuse it, do whatever it takes to get us back on the same page. But the silent treatment gives me nothing to work with, no idea which way to approach the gulf between us.

"So, are you going to say something? Or just continue to give me the evil eye all morning?"

"What's to say, Sandburg? You screwed up and you know it." He folds the paper he's been pretending to read and finally looks me in the eye. "Don't do it again."

Don't do it again? I'm honest enough with myself to admit that my first reaction to this is less than mature or responsible. In fact, I have an almost overwhelming urge to flip him off, grab my backpack and show him what he can do with his pronouncements. Fortunately, the rational side of my brain kicks in and stops me from doing anything that will end up with me handcuffed to Jim until they catch this guy.

Whoa. That the hell was that? I turn away from Jim and move back to the sink, more to hide the sudden woodage I'm sporting at the thought of being handcuffed to Jim than out of anger. Anger took a flying leap out the nearest window right about the time my blood supply was suddenly diverted.

I'm not sure where these responses are coming from, I'm not even sure I could pinpoint where they started. As long as I've known Jim, there have been times when I was struck with how physically handsome he is, but it was always just a vague recognition, an acknowledgement of what the many women who flock to him see. Since the fountain, though, they've been getting stronger, coming more often, leaving me confused, aroused, and more than a little scared.

I don't even want to think about what Jim's reaction would be if he knew. He's already kicked me out once and that's a process I'd just as soon not repeat.

"Your ride's here." I jump at the sound of Jim's voice, so close behind me. "I'll finish that." His breath is warm on my neck as he reaches around me to grab the sponge. Feeling him so close behind me, I have a wild urge to lean back against him and soak up his strength.

Instead, I pull away quickly and grab my backpack. "Well, I guess I'd better meet him. Jason, I mean. Downstairs." I yank the door open and nearly run Jason down in my haste to get out the door.

"Not so fast, Chief." A hand lands on my shoulder, tightening to hold me in place. "Spencer, I need to talk to you a minute."

Uh oh. Why don't I like the sound of this? "Listen, Jim, man, can this wait until later. I need to get my office hours started if I'm going to make it into the station today."

"This'll only take a minute, Sandburg." Jim turns his attention back to Jason. "Sandburg seems to be under the impression that he can take off on his own whenever he feels like it. Make sure you don't let him out of your sight today. Cuff him to his chair if you have to. Got it."

"Got it." Jason's giving me a fair imitation of the Ellison evil eye, as if I've just moved from friend to perp on his radar.

I know my jaw is hanging open as I look from one of them to the next, I cannot believe he just did that. My jaw is still hanging open when we reach Jason's car.

"Ellison, mind sharing with the rest of the class what you find so amusing?" Simon asks dryly, making me realize that I've spent the last several minutes privately gloating about the look on my partner's face as I sent him off to the university this morning, instead of paying attention to Simon's staff meeting.

"Sorry, sir." I sit up straighter, eyes focused on the board in front of me. Which, unfortunately, dissolves any good mood I might've been in.

The all too familiar pictures of dead, drowned eyes staring blankly upward, frozen forever in faces drawn in pain and horror, twist my gut. Even without this lunatic running around, I don't think I'll ever be comfortable looking at a drowning victim again. It strikes home too painfully.

There are two rows of pictures this time, one for Lash's original victims and another for the copycat's. The comparisons are startling. Not only has the killer the chosen people from the same walk of life as Lash's victims, but he's also found ones so similar in appearance that they could easily pass as members of the same family.

The two remaining spaces in the second line mock everyone gathered. For all we know, the general description, line of work, about the two possible victims we still don't know the most important things: Who and where. And then there's the third empty spot, the one that isn't on the board, but is silently acknowledged by everyone in the room: The spot with my partner's name on it.

Around me, people begin to gather their notes, anxious to get out of this stuffy room and back to work. Hoping to find the clue that will break this case in the reams of arrest reports, hospital release papers, traffic tickets and various other sources piled high on their desks.

"Hold up, everyone." Simon looks uncomfortably around the room. "Before you go, there's something else you all need to know. I talked to the Chief this morning and he informed me that the FBI is sending over a profiler to consult with us on this case."

"What?"

"Captain, you can't be serious."

"Simon, after what happened last time, do you really think that's wise?"

Simon holds up his hands, trying to fend off the bulk of the questions being hurled at him. "Listen, people, listen . . . ALL RIGHT! I agree with you, the last thing we need on this case is FBI interference, but it's out of my hands. Now, I think we've all got work to get back to."

"Come on, Jim." I don't even bother trying to go back to my office without him, I know he'll be pounding on the door two seconds after I close it. Can't say I blame him either, I'm no more anxious than he is to see another fiasco like the last one.

"Go on, sit." I point to the chair in front of my desk and wait until he's seated. "Before you start, I agree with you. This is a bad idea on the part of the Feds and the Chief, but there's nothing to be done about it."

"That's bull, Simon." He's up and leaning angrily over my desk. "This is how Lash got the inside track on our investigation last time. It's how he picked out Blair. How the hell are we supposed to keep that from happening again if we're helping him to repeat the pattern?"

I try to ignore the finger stabbing at my face, reminding myself that Ellison's just worried about his partner. "Jim, I've already talked to the bureau chief in charge, he's faxing over copies of the agent's service records, including pictures. We're taking every precaution this time around. Whoever the killer is, he's not slipping in this way, not again."

I can tell Ellison doesn't buy it and I can just imagine the kind of scrutiny he's going to put the FBI profiler under, but at least he's realized the futility of arguing the point. That's progress, I guess.

Okay, I can do this. No problem. I just step on the elevator, push six, and get off when it comes to the floor I want. Like I said, no problem. No problem but a partner who spent ten minutes this morning explaining the concept of protective custody to me and then another ten filling my armed escort in on what Jim is now referring to as my stupid stunt last night. A partner that's waiting for me on the sixth floor.

Maybe I should just head on back to . . . But as I turn away, thoughts of escape dancing through my head, I spot Jason waiting by the front desk, looking like he's planning on escorting me straight to Jim's desk. Preferably in chains. So, I guess that leaves the elevator. And Jim. Who's probably going to kill me.

Or I could take the elevator up to three, make like I'm heading toward the lockers, hit the stairs and be out of here before Jim knows I'm in the building. Yeah, I like that. That could work.

"Sandburg, what are you doing?"

I nearly jump out of my skin. "Simon, hey, what are you doing down here? Meeting at the mayor's office?"

"I asked first, Sandburg."

"Oh, yeah. I'm just waiting for the elevator." I gesture toward the doors in front of me with a shrug.

"Then why did I see three of them come and go while you were standing here?" I never had a father, don't even know who mine is, but I'm betting that look Simon's giving me right now is one only a father a could accomplish. Aggravated amusement. Like he knows exactly what I'm up to, but wants to see if I'm going to admit to it.

"They were crowded and I'm not in that big a hurry?" I offer up as an answer, wondering if Simon'll buy it.

"If I were you, I wouldn't be either. Come on, Sandburg." The next thing I know there's a hand wrapped around the back of my neck, directing me into the elevator. "Your partner's waiting for you."

So much for delaying the inevitable.

I'm not sure whether I should be laughing at Sandburg or helping his partner to tear him a new one. That field trip he attempted to take last night was stupid and the kid knows better, but he's so nervous I almost feel sorry for him. He jumped about a foot when I called him outside the elevator and now he's staring at the floor numbers like they're a countdown to his doom.

When we finally get up to six, Ellison ends the suspense by appearing right outside the door, like he knew Sandburg was there. Hell, he probably did. Without a word, and much to the amusement of the rest of Major Crime, Ellison, not so gently, escorts his partner to their desk and plants him in a chair. Something tells me this is going to be a long afternoon.

Two hours later when I happen to glance out my window, the tableau hasn't changed much. To the casual observer it may look like Ellison's relaxed his stance. He's standing over by Brown's desk, comparing case notes, with his back turned to Sandburg. But I can tell by the tilt of his head and the way he twitches every time Sandburg moves that most of his attention is firmly focused on his partner.

I hope those two know what they're doing. Despite the misunderstandings of late, I know what it would do to either of them if they were to lose the other. And I'm not just talking about this psycho who's after Sandburg, if they let their stubborn pride drive them apart, the hurt will be just as deep.

Reminding myself that Ellison and Sandburg's relationship isn't really any of my business, I'm about to return to the budget proposal I've been looking over when I see trouble walking into the bullpen. All 5'8" inches of her and headed straight for Sandburg. This should be interesting.

Blair. Look at him sitting there. He's got his hair down. He doesn't usually wear it down at the station. I'd forgotten how much I loved it that way. And that mouth. God, nobody kisses like Blair does, like there's nothing else in the world but your mouth and that kiss. Why the hell did I break up with him again?

There's no time like the present for rectifying past mistakes. "Hi, Blair."

"Oh, hey, Sam. Hi." When he looks up at me with those bluer than blue eyes, I have even more trouble remembering why I ended it. "What are you doing up here?"

It wasn't the sex, that much I remember. Sex with Blair is as incredible as kissing him, total devotion to the moment. "I brought the analysis of the water sample from the latest victim up. I thought that Jim would want it as soon as it was done." I drop the file in Ellison's in basket and lean over the desk. "And while I was here, I was kind of hoping I could talk to you."

"Sure, what about?"

There was the time management thing, in that he couldn't seem to manage his, but that was just mildly annoying and sometimes even entertaining. I know there was something else. "About us."

"Bevalaque." Oh, right, now I remember. Ellison.

"Ellison." I meet his challenging tone with one of my own. I'm not sure what his problem with Blair and me is, but I suddenly remember, with startling clarity, all of the little things that Jim did to come between us, all the times he'd call in the middle of a date and just expect Blair to come running. All the times Blair did just that.

"Something I can help you with?" He's lost the challenging tone, but the look in his eyes still says volumes about what he thinks of my standing so close to his partner. Almost like he knew what we were about to talk about and objected.

"I just brought up the analysis of the water in Tommy Thayer's lungs. I thought you might want to get a look at it right away." There, that sounded perfectly civil in return. Practically.

"Yeah, I did." He wedges himself between Blair and me to grab the file and continues to stand there while he leafs through it. "Tell Welles I said thanks for the quick turnover."

"Right." Now it's all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes as I try to look around him at Blair. "Listen, Blair, if you've got a little free time, do you think we could grab a cup of coffee and talk? We haven't really had a chance to catch up lately."

"Sure, I guess so." Blair reaches for his backpack and I can't help but flash a triumphant grin at Ellison.

"Sorry, Chief." Ellison doesn't bother to return my grin; the smug bastard doesn't need to. He just slaps a hand down on Blair's shoulder and directs him back to his chair. "Don't forget you're in protective custody. You're not going anywhere without me."

Blair looks like he wants to argue for a moment, but then just shrugs and sinks back into his chair. "Sorry, Sam. Maybe later?"

"Yeah, maybe." But as I leave the bullpen, part of me really doubts Ellison's going to take that lying down.

"Excuse me?"

Closing the book I've been pretending to read, I look up and find a gorgeous redhead looking at me inquisitively. A sight that would normally make my day, unfortunately nothing seems to be normal these days. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so. I'm looking for Captain Simon Banks." Her sharp gaze wanders around the bullpen, as though she's sizing up everyone present. "I tried his office," she motions gracefully toward Simon's closed door, "but no one was in. I'd look for him myself, but I have no idea who I'm looking for," she admits flashing me a quick smile.

"I'm sure he's around here somewhere." Dropping the book on my backpack, I stand quickly and scan the bullpen. "Somewhere that's not here, I guess." I look at her again to find she's turned that gaze on me, watching me in a way that makes me feel like she can tell everything I'm thinking. It's somehow disconcerting and reassuring at the same time.

"You're Blair Sandburg, aren't you?" she asks and offers me her hand.

"Uh, yeah, I am." I reach out to shake her hand; her grip's surprisingly firm. "Do I know you?"

"No, I'm sorry. Rachel Burke," she replies with an apologetic smile. "I'm with the FBI. The Seattle field office sent me in to profile your copycat."

Something in my face must've given away my shock because she immediately let's go of my hand and grabs the chair behind me. "Do you need to sit down?"

Before I can answer, before I can even formulate an answer, Jim comes barreling into the bullpen, looking ready to rip somebody's head off. "SANDBURG?! What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just . . ." I manage to get that much past the lump in my throat before Jim's pushing himself between us and eyeing Rachel suspiciously.

"Who are you?"

"Dr. Rachel Burke, FBI." She reaches carefully into her pocket and pulls out a badge and ID, handing it to Jim. "I'm sorry if I startled Mr. Sandburg. I understand that you had some security issues with the original case."

Jim inspects the ID, closely, while I try to get my heart out of my throat and silently curse myself. Panicking at the first sight of a Fed is so not the way to impress upon Jim my ability to take care of myself.

Still holding on to her ID, Jim scrutinizes me closely. "Chief, you all right?"

Blinking away my distraction, I look up to see that same unnamed emotion in Jim's eyes that I first glimpsed at Simon's place the morning after this all started. Only this time, it doesn't disappear in the same instance and I'm on the verge of naming it when a softly cleared throat interrupts us.

Jim turns back to Special Agent Burke, but I can still feel his hand, warm and comforting, wrapped around my arm. "This says you're with the Atlanta field office. So, why are you coming from the Seattle field office?"

"How did you know there was a problem?" She looks quizzically between Jim and I, some glimmer of awareness in her eyes, before continuing. "I was in Seattle for a consultation on another case when they got word on this one. Since I've had some experience with copycats in the past, they asked me to take a look at your file." Peering around Jim, she offers me another smile. "I really am sorry. I should've known better, but sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my tact."

"It's no problem, really." I wave off her concern, trying for a nonchalance I don't feel. "I didn't know the FBI had taken an interest in this case and, well, after last time . . ." I leave the thought unfinished, not willing to call up the memories that go with it.

"I understand. Maybe I should just wait in Captain Bank's office." She thrusts her hand out toward Jim. "My ID?"

"What?" Jim's scowling as he looks up from the ID to stare at Special Agent Burke again.

"My ID." She points to the leather case.

"I'd like to hold on to this until we have everything verified," Jim replies curtly. "That is, if you don't mind, Agent Burke."

"No, not at all, Detective." She studies Jim for a moment, with that same penetrating gaze she directed at me earlier, and I can't help thinking she knows all of our secrets, better than we do.

"I'll, uh, show you to Simon's office," I offer, stepping out from my position behind Jim. "You're lucky, Simon's got the best coffee in the building."

"Hold up, Sandburg." Jim's hand falls heavy on my shoulder. "We need to talk." He motions across the room for Rafe. "Detective Rafe will be happy to show you to Captain Banks' office, Agent Burke."

Before I can lash into Jim for treating me like I'm incapable of crossing a room full of cops without an armed guard, he raises his hand for silence and cocks his head to the side, eyes drifting shut as he listens for something.

"Simon's up on ten, in the conference room. I want you to wait out here until I get back with him." Another hand forestalls my protest. "I know how you feel, Chief, but humor me."

Jim's out the door before I can protest.

Damn it. One of these days I'm going nail Sandburg to his chair. It was a simple request, wait in the bullpen until I got back with Simon. So, of course, the first thing I notice when I step off the elevator is that my partner's heartbeat is coming from Simon's office. A few more steps and I can see him sitting at the table, crouched over the case files with the Fed. I guess I should be grateful he's at least still in the building.

He ignores the glare I throw his way when Simon and I enter the office and continues to pull out files for her, seeming a little too comfortable with someone who had him ready to jump out of his skin just a few minutes ago.

"Dr. Burke, it's nice to meet you. On behalf of the Cascade Police Department I'd like to thank you for taking the time to help us out on this case." Simon greets her before looking over the mess of files spread across the table and raising an eyebrow. "Sandburg, feel free to make yourself at home."

"Oh, yeah, hey, sorry Simon." He shrugs and grins sheepishly. "I just thought Rachel might want to get started on the files as soon as possible."

Rachel? I'm gone five minutes and he's already on a first name basis and cuddled up at the table with her. Guess he got over his fear of profilers.

"I'm sorry if this is a problem, Captain Banks." Burke stands and starts to gather the files together. "Blair was just helping me get up to speed on the case."

Blair? I clamp down hard on a surge of anger and remind myself that she's only here for a few days.

"Please, Dr. Burke," Simon motions her to sit again, "consider my office yours, for the duration."

"Thank you." She sits again and reaches for the topmost file. "The Seattle District Office gave me a copy of David Lash's file to look over on the way down here. I have to admit that it made fascinating, if disturbing, reading."

"Disturbing is right." Simon leans across the table, turning the file around and skimming quickly over the top page. "But Lash is dead, what I want to know is how we find this killer. Where do you start to look for someone who thinks they're a dead man?"

"Actually, Captain Banks, I think part of the problem is that your department's been looking at this the wrong way." She reaches into the folder and pulls out copies of the notes that were sent to Sandburg.

"Excuse me?" The expression on Simon's face says he's more than a little ticked at the suggestion his people have dropped the ball and a petty part of me, that I don't often acknowledge, starts looking forward to seeing him take Burke down a peg or two.

"Yes, if you look at David Lash's message it says Who am I now?', but the ones sent to Mr. Sandburg say `Who are you now?'" She turns to Blair while Simon and I exchange a look. "According to the records they gave me at the Seattle office, you drowned recently Blair, isn't that correct?"

"What kind of fucking question is that?" I'm on my feet yelling, fear and anger coursing through me, unable to make myself look at Blair and the pain I know will be reflected on his face. Instead I focus all my attention on Burke, watching with grim satisfaction as she flinches back in her chair.

"Jim, man, calm down." Sandburg's standing between us now, trying to get me to look at him, to deflect my anger in an attempt to ignore his own panicked reaction to the question.

I hear Simon calling my name, telling me to take my seat, but I ignore him to take another menacing step in Burke's direction. Who the hell does this bitch think she is asking shit like that? Like it was a fucking Sunday walk in the park. You drowned recently Blair, isn't that correct? Like she's asking about the Goddamned weather.

My anger, my rage, over her question, over my own behavior leading up to the drowning, all boils over to the point that for a moment I can't think beyond the need to vent my rage, to physically express all the pain that's been building and festering inside me from the moment I turned away from Hargrove Hall and my heart told me I was too late.

Before I can act on my pain and anger, though, Blair is there standing between Burke and myself, brushing his hand gently against mine, forcing me to look into his eyes. It's just a quick, light touch, but I can feel my anger drain, replaced with a bone deep sadness as I look down at his tired, drawn face.

"Yeah," he's turning back to her now, "yeah, about two months ago. I was . . . there was . . . at the university."

"I'm sorry, I know this is hard on you." Burke reaches out to touch Sandburg's arm and I resist the quick urge to rip her hand off. "And I'm sorry for the way I asked this. My daddy always told me I wouldn't know tact if it snuck up behind me and whacked me in the head with a two-by-four. But I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important."

"Exactly how the hell is what happened with Barnes important to this case?" Simon grounds out, looking nearly as shaky as I feel.

"Because I think it led directly to our suspect focusing on Bl-Mr. Sandburg."

"Lash tried to drown me and then I did drown." Blair mumbles quietly, dropping back into his chair with a quiet sigh.

"Exactly." Burke looks at Sandburg sympathetically before continuing. "I think that Blair's miraculous survival, his return from the very fate that David Lash thought would allow him to take over his victims personalities, is what focused the killer on him."

"What exactly are you trying to say, Dr. Burke?" Simon doesn't appear any happier with this line of questioning than I do.

"I think that the killer believes that Mr. Sandburg is David Lash." She spreads copies of the notes sent to Blair across the table in front of her. "That's why the notes are asking him who he is now."

"Why recreate Lash's murders then?" Blair's slipped back behind his shield of intellectual interest, pretending that this isn't about him, but it doesn't take enhanced senses to see the tremor in his hand as he reaches for the closest note.

"To prompt your memory. To remind you who you are. Or who they think you are." She starts pulling photos out and laying them next to each other on the table. "The murders are too exact. Every detail from the victim's appearance to their line of work, it's all exactly the same. Until you get to the notes, the gifts . . . They're all reminders."

"Sweet Jesus." Simon swears softly.

"And if they can't?" I ask, knowing, dreading, the answer.

"Either they'll seek out a confrontation, to convince Blair that he is David Lash, or try to kill him."

"Jim, you got a minute?"

I can see the second of hesitation in my detective's face before he nods and moves to join me in my office. Behind him, Sandburg begins to rise until I stop him with a slight shake of my head. What I have to say to Ellison needs to be between the two of us.

"Listen, Simon, you don't have to say it." He drops into the nearest chair and turns to me with a face full of self-reproach. "I know I was out of line with Burke earlier."

"Yeah, you were," I agree, shutting the door quietly. "But that's not what I want to talk to you about."

The look he's giving me now is half-trepidation and half-curiosity, like he's waiting for the other shoe to fall. On his head. "What is it, sir?"

"We never got to finish our conversation the other day." I wait as Jim recalls our interrupted conversation, watching as he squirms uncomfortably. "You do remember . . ."

"Yes, Simon, I remember, I just don't . . ." Jim sighs heavily, running a hand across his face in obvious frustration. "I'm not sure what you want to hear Simon."

"The truth would be nice, for a change. Jim, I know I'm your commanding officer, but I'd like to think I'm your friend too." Settling on the edge of the desk, I look him in the eye. "Yours and Sandburg's. Any concerns about how it's affecting your job performance aside, I know your private life is none of my business, but after everything you and Blair have been through, I'd hate to see you both lose the friendship as well."

"That's not going to happen." Jim's gaze breaks away from mine, landing unerringly on Sandburg's silent form. "I won't let it happen."

"I thought maybe you were still pissed at him for the whole Barnes thing. Or maybe just didn't give a damn one way or the other, anymore." Jim looks back at me, startled by my words. "But that's not it, is it? I saw your face the night this all started. You were practically in a panic when you showed up on my doorstep."

"Simon, I was never . . . I could never stay pissed at him. And I do give a damn. More than I can possibly explain."

"Then you need to tell him that." I follow his gaze out to where Blair sits, looking miserable and alone. "Because I don't think I'm the only who's been wondering how long it'll be until you toss him out again."

It's late by the time we trudge up the stairs to the loft, silently cursing the broken elevator, no closer to catching this guy than we were the night he slipped that scarf under Sandburg's office door.

With Simon's damning words still ringing in my ears, I almost don't catch Blair's quiet question. It's the first thing he's said since we left the station and doesn't seem to be related to anything. "What?"

"It's just, I was thinking about it, about how someone could get a body back into the building and it occurred to me that the officers on duty were probably watching for something, I don't know, sneaky maybe?" He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on a hook. "You expect someone transporting a body to try not to be seen. But what if they just walked right past them, like they were delivering a dishwasher or something?"

It's a good thought and I tell him as much before calling Simon and having him arrange to have the officers on duty meet us in the office in the morning. By the time I'm off the phone, Blair's already started to whip up something for dinner. A quick sniff tells me it's some leftover black bean chili he pulled out of the freezer. It also tells me that this one, thankfully, is minus the Ostrich. It's not that it tasted so bad, but I just can't quite get over eating something that Sally used to take me to the zoo to see. Makes me wonder if I'm going to come home to Zebra burgers some night.

"This is going take a few minutes." He doesn't turn to look at me, just continues stirring the pot in front of him. "You might as well go ahead and take a shower."

"Yeah, okay." I start for the loft stairs, unsure of what I want to say to him. "Listen, Chief, about last night . . ."

I almost jump when he slaps the spoon down on the counter. "Not again, okay, Jim? I know how you feel. You've made it perfectly clear to me, Jason, Simon, everyone you've come across today. I don't need to hear it again."

"Chief." He's picked up the spoon and returned to stirring the chili by the time I cross the room and stand behind him, "Blair, I'm sorry. I was just . . ."

"Sure, Jim, whatever." He continues stirring, not willing to meet my eye.

"Chief, please, just stop for a minute." I gently pluck the spoon from his hand, using my other arm to reach around him and pull him back against my chest. For a moment he tenses and I have a second to wonder if I've made a mistake before he relaxes against me and drops his head. "I'm sorry I handled it the way I did. I shouldn't have blown up at you like that and I shouldn't have treated you like a child in front of Jason and Simon. But I'm not sorry I went after you, you scared the crap out of me."

"Why?" his voice cracks on that single syllable and my heart along with it.

"Why what?" I ask, once again hearing Simon's words in my head. I thought maybe you were still pissed at him for the whole Barnes thing. I know things have been strained between us, but he can't possibly believe that. He just can't.

Slowly, he pulls away, sliding out of the space I'd trapped him in, and turns to face me. "Why did it scare you?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?" I promised myself I wasn't going to get mad this time and I'm honestly trying not to, but how the hell can he even ask me that?

"Nevermind, it's not important." He turns away with a shrug and reaches again for the spoon.

"Yes, it is." I hope he'll read in my tone what my words can never quite convey, but he just continues stirring the chili like nothing happened. "Blair, answer me."

"It's nothing, Jim, really." He finally replies. "I'm just tired. We both are. Go ahead and take your shower."

With a frustrated sigh, I reach out and ghost my hand down his back before giving up and heading for the shower. I know I need to fix this, but I'll be damned if I have a clue how.

Great. Could I sound whinier? God, I don't know what's wrong with me these days. Jim was trying to apologize and I start acting like a spoiled kid. Why didn't I just stick out my tongue and tell him he'd be sorry when I was gone? It always went over so well with Naomi when I was eight.

Mentally kicking myself, I take the chili off the stove, grab some crackers, and haul it all over to the table. Maybe if I have everything ready by the time Jim gets out of the shower, we can just pretend none of this happened.

I can hear the water go off as I'm pulling down bowls, and out of nowhere my sight is filled with the vision of Jim standing there, the kiss of terry-cloth moving across his bare skin. I remember what it felt like to have his naked body pressed against mine as he dragged me back into the apartment.

CRASH!

Shit. I dropped the bowls. Damn it, damn it, damn it. I start, carefully, picking up the shattered pieces, wondering if they have a name for whatever my problem is.

"CHIEF?" Jim bolts out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped hastily around his middle, looking panicked.

"Jim, stop." I hold up one hand in warning, wincing as one of the sharp edged slivers bites into my thumb. "There are pieces all over. Let me get the broom."

"You're bleeding." He's hovering just outside the kitchen, looking like it's taking all of his restraint to stay out.

"It's nothing." I wave the thumb at him. "See? Just a little cut."

"We should still get it cleaned out." Now he's pacing back and forth in the doorway, his gaze wavering back and forth, between me and the floor, like he's trying to calculate how difficult it would be to maneuver around the pieces.

"As soon as I finish cleaning this up." Standing, I start for the cupboard with the broom, when I feel a hand encircling my wrist. "Jim?"

"That can wait, Chief." Jim replies softly, drawing me out of the kitchen, my injured hand cradled in his palm. "Come on."

The next thing I know, I'm standing in front of bathroom sink with Jim pressed up behind me, holding my hand under the cold water. His arms are wrapped around me and I can feel his breath on my neck as he carefully washes away the blood. God, I can't believe how right it feels to have Jim's arms around me.

"There, that's better."

"What?" I ask, dazed, confused by my own emotional roller coaster.

"Your finger." Jim's hand slides down over mine and lifts it up until we're both looking at the new Band-Aid wrapped around it.

"Oh, yeah, thanks, I . . ." I pull away, unable to meet Jim's eyes. "I better go get that cleaned up before, um, before someone steps on it or . . . I'll just . . ." I turn and flee the room before I can make anymore of an ass of myself.

By the time I've finished cleaning things up and getting new bowls on the table, Jim's dressed and back downstairs. "Hey, man, it's almost done. I just stuck the chili back in the microwave for a couple minutes to warm it back up."

"It smells really good, Chief." Jim's rearranging the silverware, smoothing out the napkin I slapped down next to his bowl, a sure sign that he's nervous or upset about something. My stomach clenches as I try to figure out what's wrong. Could I have betrayed the track my thoughts have been taking lately, in the bathroom?

"Thanks. I'd better get . . ."

"Hold on, a sec, Blair." He drops his hand on top of mine, halting my flight. "There's something I need to talk to you about."

Oh shit. This is it. My heart and stomach head in opposite directions as I try to maintain my composure enough to look him in the eye. Just let me get through this without losing it. That's all I want right now. "Yeah?"

"Chief, I don't . . . I . . ." Jim shifts uncomfortably and looks down at where his thumb is moving softly over the top of my hand. "I don't want you to leave."

What? That's so far from what I expected that I'm left speechless for a moment. "Leave? I don't, I'm not . . . Jim, what are you talking about? Where am I going?"

"Nowhere!" Jim stops and closes his eyes, drawing his hands into his lap and taking a deep breath before looking at me again and continuing. "Nowhere. I just don't want you to feel like you need to go somewhere or that I want you to. This is your home too. I want you to stay here as long as you want. That's all. I just didn't want you to think that you needed . . . that I wanted . . ."

A stunned silence fills the air as I stared, shocked, at an obviously uncomfortable Jim. Wow. I'm not sure where that came from, but it was sure as hell unexpected and I find myself unable to respond.

The beep of the microwave saves us both from continuing this . . . conversation? Non-conversation? Confession? The dinner that follows is a silent affair. Both of us trying to digest Jim's words.

Blair's sitting at the table, pushing his breakfast around the plate instead of eating it, when I come downstairs in the morning. I can tell he's making an effort not to look at me, but I'm not sure if it's for his comfort or mine. What I said last night was meant to clear the air, to make sure he knows that he's welcome here, he's always welcome here, but I'm afraid that all it did was to make things more uncomfortable between us.

"I left you a plate in the oven. If you're hungry." He glances up quickly, but as soon as I make eye contact he turns back to staring at his plate, as though the patterns he's drawn in his eggs hold the secret to World Peace. "It's only been there a few minutes, so it shouldn't be too dried out."

"Thanks. Are you . . ." My voice cracks on the first attempt and I clear my throat before trying again. "Are you going to Rainier this morning?"

"No." Blair raises his head just enough to meet my eyes and I can almost see his thoughts swirling behind them. He's wondering about last night's admissions and what they mean. "I canceled my office hours, since the review's tonight. I thought I'd come to the station until it's time for you and Simon to leave for the Pastrana stakeout. That is, I mean, if you want me to."

"Yeah, yeah, I do." I reply softly, watching his face change from nervous, to relieved, to happy. Maybe I didn't blow things as much as I feared. "I've missed having you around. Not that you haven't been around, just not as much as usual and . . ." I can feel my face flushing scarlet as I trip over my words. "Do you need to call Spencer?"

"No, I let him know yesterday that I was planning on catching a ride in with you." He pushes his plate away and slides his chair back. "I guess I should finish getting ready. Simon wanted us in early this morning, didn't he?"

"Yeah, he wanted to call Connor in to go over some of the points Burke brought up, before she gets in this morning."

"That sounds good. Just let me grab my stuff and put on my shoes." He backs toward his room, regarding me the whole time, with just the hint of a smile playing around his lips.

I think, just maybe, today's going to a good day.

What a bloody rotten day.

It's not even 8am and I've already ruined one pair of stockings, broken a shoe and it's going to cost me a pretty penny to get this jacket cleaned. I wish someone would explain what makes these stupid blockheads think that "Stop, police!" applies to everyone but them. This idiot made me chase him for three blocks before I caught him.

Shoving my suspect in front of me through the doors to Major Crime, I catch Ellison look up and give me a double take before starting to grin from ear to ear. One word, just one bloody word and Captain Banks is going to be looking to replace a detective.

"That's a nice look for you, Connor." Those are the words.

"Piss off, Ellison." I spit back at him as I drag my suspect over to my desk and push him into the chair, undoing his handcuffs just long enough to cuff them behind his back and through the chair. "Sit. Stay."

"No really, it's good to see you throwing yourself into American culture like this." He's leaning back in his chair, nodding smugly, while I wonder just how hard I'd have to hit him to knock him on his arse. "Although, you might want to wait until you're off duty before you go mud wrestling again. Now, personally, I don't mind, like I said, it's a good look for you. But Simon's a bit of a stickler about these things."

"You think so, eh, Ellison?" Sauntering over to his desk, I can't help but notice the nice, clean, white shirt that Jimbo's wearing this morning. Very clean, very white. "Funny, but I've always found Captain Banks to have quite a sense of humor, haven't you?" Patting a liberal coating of mud on his face, I finish the job off by using that nice white shirt to clean the rest off my hands. The look on Ellison's face almost makes the run in my stockings worth it.

What the . . .? Blinking, I do a double take, half-convinced I stepped out of the break room, into the Twilight Zone. Everything looks the same as I left it ninety seconds ago, except for Megan, who's standing over Jim, dripping mud and smirking.

"Oh, wow, Megan, are you all right?" I hurry to put down the coffee and that's when I notice that Jim's wearing a fair amount of mud himself. "What happened to you?"

"Connor happened." He growls, standing up straight and glaring at Megan, who only smirks wider. "Nice job, Connor."

"Why, thank you, Jimbo. And if you don't mind my saying, this is a good look for you, too. Brings out the blue in your eyes." Laughing, Megan returns to her desk, giving the kid in the chair a kick in the shins as she passes him.

"What did you do to her, man?"

"Do to her? I didn't do anything to her." Right, Jim, pull the other one. "I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business and going over my notes. I don't know what got her Aussie knickers in a twist."

Shaking my head, I give up and drop into my chair. "You better be careful, Jim. You know she can kick your ass."

"It'll be a cold day in . . ."

"A cold and muddy day?" I can't help asking.

"No respect. I get no respect." Jim's sighing forlornly and shaking his head.

"Whatever, Rodney," I brush off his complaints with a wave of my hand, afraid if I look him in the eye I'll really lose it, "but don't you think you should change before Simon's meeting?"

"Yeah, I guess I should." He stands slowly and I can feel his eyes on me. When I finally look up he's giving me a smile that has my heart turning over in my chest. "Don't move. I'll be back in a couple."

I manage to nod my assent, forcing myself to ignore my stomach's sudden acrobatics. I'm still not sure I understand this change that seems to be taking place between Jim and I, but anything's got to be better than the strained silences that have filled the spaces between us since we returned from Sierra Verde. And some little voice inside, one that keeps getting stronger everyday, is telling me that whatever this is, it just might be something we've both been waiting our whole lives for.

"Blair? Do you mind if I join you for a minute?" Rachel's standing next to the desk, looking uncomfortable and smiling apologetically.

"Sure." I nod toward Jim's empty chair. "Have a seat."

"Thanks. Listen, I just want to apologize again for what I said yesterday."

"You were just doing your job." I shrug, the report in the middle of Jim's desk taking on fascinating proportions as I try not to relive yesterday's shock.

"Yes, but I should've been a little more sensitive about it." Her smile turns sheepish. "I'm a Forensic Psychologist, the emphasis is supposed to be on psychology, understanding people. I'm afraid I flunked that part of it yesterday. For that, I am truly sorry. I didn't mean to upset you or bring back bad memories. I just let the cop part of my brain take over for a little bit. I hope we're still friends."

I take the hand she offers me, watching relief cross her face. "Friends."

"Well, isn't this cozy?" The sarcasm in Jim's voice as he comes up behind Rachel stuns me.

"Jim?" I can't quite school the hurt from my voice as I respond to him. "Something wrong, man?"

"No, nothing." He replies coolly, grabbing the report I'd been studying. "Isn't it about time to meet with Simon?"

"Uh, yeah, sure." I follow behind Jim and Rachel, wondering what I missed in the time it took Jim to change his shirt.

That's when I look up and notice how close Jim is walking to Rachel, just a half step behind, his hand hovering over the small of her back.

Oh shit. Man, I don't know how I missed all the signs. Jim's attracted to her and he thinks that I . . . I feel an uncomfortable flash of jealousy even as my stomach twists over the remembrance of the last woman Jim and I had a misunderstanding over.

"Okay people, you've all had a chance to go over Dr. Burke's report. Are there any questions?" There's a frustrated round of murmurings, but no actual questions, as I look around at the detectives gathered, watching as some shake their heads in helpless frustration, while other's avoid my gaze altogether.

Ellison and Sandburg are seated at opposite ends of the table, casting surreptitious glances at one another when they think the other isn't looking. Not exactly encouraging if Ellison took my advice about talking to his partner. In fact, at this moment, Sandburg looks like someone just ran over his puppy and took out the last Starbucks in the process, and Ellison's ignoring his partner, in favor of glaring at Dr. Burke like he expects her to pull out an Uzi and spray the room.

And where the hell is Connor?

"Rafe, Brown, anything new on how the killer managed to get the body back into the building?"

"Umm, yeah, Captain." Brown exchanges an uncomfortable glance with his partner. "We followed up on Hair . . ., Sandburg's idea and talked to the uniforms stationed out front. A delivery van from Heller's Appliances made a stop there and delivered wide-screen TV. Except when we talked to the manager of Heller's," he pauses to check his notes, "Curtis Jacobs, this morning he had no record of a delivery to that address and a missing van."

"Did you get a description of the driver from the uniforms?" Please say yes, we really need a break at this point.

"Nothing concrete," Rafe replies uncomfortably. "All they were able to tell us was that the suspect appeared to be a white male, between the ages of 20-35, approximately 140 pounds, around 5'9". He was wearing a hat, so they don't have any idea of hair or eye color."

"That's still more than we had to start with. Circulate that description, then you and Brown head over to the first victim's neighborhood. See if anyone noticed someone matching our suspect's description around, maybe talking to Everts. And take Dr. Burke with you. Ellison, Sandburg, you do the same with Thayer's building. Find out if anyone there had a delivery made yesterday, maybe the uniform's got the name on the truck wrong or maybe one them saw which apartment it was left at. See if anyone can give you a better description."

"Yes, sir." Ellison nods, before shifting his attention back to Dr. Burke.

"All right, people, you've got your assignments, get out of here." I wave them toward the door. "Ellison, hold up a minute, I want to talk to you about the stakeout tonight."

"Simon, you need me for this?" Sandburg asks, fidgeting slightly as the rest of the squad files out of the room.

"No, Sandburg. I just need Jim for this one." He nods and hurries out after the others.

Jim barely waits for the door to close before starting on the excuse I knew was coming. "Captain, I don't think that you . . ."

"Save it, Detective." I fix him with a gaze that would send most of my men scurrying in the other direction, but doesn't even faze Ellison. "The DEA's been working months to set-up this buy, Pastrana's one of the biggest dealer's on the West Coast and the agent in charge specifically requested your help on this bust."

"That was before this copycat thing came up, sir." Jim replies curtly, not bothering to hide his feelings on this matter.

"I know that, Detective." Ellison's jaw tenses and I know he's not happy with this, hell, I'm not happy with it, but we have a job to do. "But this isn't our only case. Spencer will be with Sandburg at the university tonight. So, there shouldn't be any problem, right?"

"Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

"That's all." I can't keep from sighing as he leaves. I have a feeling it's going to be a long, cold stakeout.

Sandburg's sitting at the desk waiting for me when Simon finally lets me go and I feel an inordinate amount of relief at the sight. It's hard enough to take my eyes off of him for longer than thirty seconds with this nut running around, but now I find myself half expecting him to take off with Burke the minute I turn my back on them.

I know I'm being unreasonable, Burke is a Federal Agent, we've had her checked out six ways to Sunday and she is who she says she is. But it doesn't change the fact that Sandburg is my partner and I don't trust his well-being, his life, to anyone else. Although, given what's happen to him in my keeping, maybe I should.

It doesn't help matters that she looks like one of his wet dreams come to life. Red-hair, green eyes, thin, gorgeous, with shapely legs and a sharp mind that seems to keep up with his. Everything Sandburg looks for in a woman. I really think I could learn to hate her.

"Come on, Chief." I cuff him lightly on the back of the head as I walk past our desk. "Let's get over to Thayer's building and see what we can find out."

"Right, Jim." I watch as he closes one of his ever-present books and stuffs it into his backpack, the familiar motions soothing in the midst of the chaos our lives have been lately.

Five hours later, we're back at the station, tired, hungry, with no new answers. No one in the building saw anything suspicious, heard anything suspicious, knows the meaning of the word suspicious. I have a feeling Dahmer could drag his latest victim kicking and screaming through the lobby and no one would admit to seeing anything suspicious, at least not to the cops.

A quick lunch of vending machine food and we're back at our desk, poring over the reports again. The next few hours pass slowly as we sift through the files, trying to come up with something we might have over looked. It's an exercise in futility, but all we've got to go on at the moment.

As slowly as the afternoon passes, though, the DEA Agents are here long before I'm ready and I give Simon a half-hearted nod before rising to joining.

"When, exactly, is this review of yours?" I can't help checking one last time, needing to have it all fixed in my mind.

Sandburg rolls his eyes at me and works to contain a sigh. "I told you, it's at seven, at the library."

"Where in the library?"

"Third floor." And this time he does sigh. "Look Jim, I know you're worried about me and I appreciate that, but we've gone over this a hundred times. The session is from 7:00 until we're done. It's in a well-lit, open area. I'll keep my cell phone on. I'll stay out of stairwells and dark corridors. I won't even go to the bathroom alone, okay?"

No, not really, but it's the best I can do for now. Something in my face must give that away because Blair's expression softens and he leans forward to squeeze my arm. "Don't worry, Jim, everything'll be fine. You'd better get in there before Simon comes looking for you again."

I nod, reluctantly, and head into Simon's office, wondering why I feel like I'm never going to see him again.

Glancing over at Simon's office, I can see Jim leaning across the desk and focused pretty intently on the report the DEA agents brought with them. He's been in there for about forty-five minutes and for the last fifteen, he's been so caught up in what they're doing, that he's stopped looking up to pinpoint my position every three minutes. Which means that this is as good a time as any for the great escape.

Ignoring the voice in the back of my head that insists this is a bad idea, that Jim is going to kill me if he finds out, I write a quick note for Jim letting him know I left for my review session and drop it in the middle of his desk before strolling, as casually as I can, toward the exit.

"Sandburg, where are you going?"

Once again thanking several deities that Jim is the only Sentinel I know, I turn and smile at Rafe. "Jason's waiting for me in the lobby. I've got a student review tonight."

"Does Ellison know about this?"

You know, I get the feeling Rafe doesn't trust me. I can't imagine why. I mean, I've got an honest face, right? Even when I'm lying through my teeth. "Yes, Jim knows about it. You think I'd get within three feet of the door if he didn't? I'd better get going, undergrads get antsy if you're even a minute late. See ya." I back out the doorway as nonchalantly as I can and make good my escape.

After spending most of the day alternating between tagging along behind Brown and Rafe and getting hit on by two-thirds of the single (and some not-so-single) men in the precinct, all I can think of is how good my hotel room and a long hot bath sound right now. That is, until I see Blair Sandburg making his way as quickly and stealthily toward the elevator as he can. To the untrained observer, I'm sure he looks as casual as he intends to portray, but I've got six brothers, I know sneaky when I see it

"Going somewhere?"

Blair stops one step shy of the elevator, turning a wide-eyed innocent look on me, which only confirms my suspicions. "Uh, yeah, I was just going to meet my, uh, escort in the lobby. I have a student review over at the university library."

"And Ellison's okay with your going down to the lobby alone?" Arching an eyebrow, I lean against the wall next to the elevator call button and wait for his next attempt. "Even though Lash was able to get into the station, right under your noses? Even though the copycat suspect was apparently able to get into the squad room and deliver those flowers?"

He stares at me blankly for a moment before recovering. "Jim's in a meeting, with Simon and the, uh, DEA. So, no, not really, but I figured there wasn't really any harm in it. I mean, everyone knows me, so it's not like there's a real problem."

"Really." I turn and punch the down button. "Why don't I go down with you, just to be safe?"

"Yeah, okay, that'd be great." He fidgets nervously with the strap on his pack. "So, how'd you get into forensic psychology in the first place?"

"That's a long, not so pleasant story." I reply as the elevator comes, trying to school the anger brought on by those memories from my voice. "Suffice to say, I grew a little disenchanted with my position as a prosecutor."

"You were a prosecutor?" Blair's shaking his head and flashing a playful grin at me. "I'll bet you had the defense eating out of your hand."

"Hardly." It's a nice try at distracting me, like I said, I've got six brothers, each and every one of which had friends looking to flatter me out of something. Stepping out of the elevator I look around the lobby. "So, where's this escort of yours?"

"Oh yeah," he looks around carefully and shrugs, "he must still be in the locker room changing. But you don't have to wait with me." He waves one hand through the air. "Plenty of cops around to keep an eye out and I'm sure you're anxious to get out of here."

"How about I wait anyway." I look at him pointedly. "Or you could just tell me what you're really up to. Unless you think it's a better idea to go back upstairs and ask your partner."

Sighing deeply, he drops his head to his chest and I have to work to hide my smirk of triumph.

"Fine, but you've got to promise not to tell Jim." He pleads quietly, with a look I thought only my brother Danny could accomplish. "Jason's got a family thing tonight, a rehearsal for his sister's wedding. I couldn't just ask him to miss out on it. And Jim's got a stakeout, one he can't miss."

"So, you just thought you'd skip out on police protection for the night? I heard you were smarter than that, Sandburg."

"I am." He replies defensively. "But it was either go it alone tonight or have Jim stationing uniforms all over the library, intimidating the students. I'm not going to have my students treated like suspects and I'm not going to cancel the review session. Are you going to tell Jim?"

"I'll make you a deal. You buy me dinner and tell me how an Anthropology ABD ended up riding along with the Cascade PD and I'll be your escort for the evening. And I promise not to intimidate your students. How's that?"

"Really?" His face lights up at my proposal and I can't help thinking that even the hardest heart would have trouble denying him what he wants. "Thanks, Rachel. You're a lifesaver."

Simon's still talking as I step out of his office, but I'm too distracted by Blair's absence to pay attention. "Where's Sandburg?" I glare accusatorily at the stragglers hanging out in the bullpen.

"He said something about a student review." Rafe's eyes are narrowing as he returns my glare. "He told me you knew about it."

A quick glance at the clock tells me his review should've started forty minutes ago. "Yeah, I did. Guess I forgot." I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. "He took Spencer with him, right?"

Rafe looks relieved as he nods. "He was meeting him in the lobby. How'd the meeting with the DEA go?"

"Long, slow, boring. The information they're giving us looks pretty shaky to me, but the Commissioner says we cooperate, so we cooperate." Moving to my desk, I read the note Blair left me, reminding me about tonight's study group. I'm not sure which sounds more boring, an all night stakeout with Simon, or a group of desperate freshmen trying to cram everything they've spent their class time ignoring, into one grueling evening.

At least this damn summer class is almost over. One more week and I get my partner back full time. Maybe once we start spending some time together, we can find a way to sit down and talk out everything that's happened between us lately. A way that won't leave us further apart than we were to start with.

"Jim, you ready?"

"Yeah, Simon, let's get this over with."

"Damn it, Ellison, sit still and let the doctor look at that."

"I'm fine, Simon. It's just a little scratch."

"Why don't we let the doctor decide that?" I don't know how Sandburg puts up with this stoic crap on a daily basis. "It is what he gets paid for."

Ellison doesn't bother answering, so I turn back to the doctor. "Well?"

"Detective Ellison's right, it's nothing serious, but it will need a couple of stitches and a tetanus shot."

"No shot."

"Now, Detective, I understand if you're bothered by needles, but . . ." the doctor begins kindly.

"It's not the needle. I have an allergic reaction to tetanus shots." Jim's jaw tenses as he looks at the doctor. "I got one a couple years ago and almost went into anaphylactic shock. It should be in my medical file. My roommate made sure that Dr. Tomkins wrote it in there."

The doctor eyes Jim for a moment, then flips through the file. "Ah, yes, here it is, along with a good many others. Very well, we'll skip the shot since you have had one in the last ten years, but in your line of work you really should see a specialist about those allergies."

Jim, big surprise, just shrugs his shoulders and goes back to staring at the wall.

"How much longer, Doc?"

"Almost done, Captain." He ties off a final stitch and cuts the thread. "Now, I'll write you a prescription for antibiotic, one that isn't on your allergy list, and I'd like you to take it easy on that arm for the next couple days."

I'm about to thank the doctor for his patience when a disturbance in the hallway catches my attention.

"Ow. Damn it, watch where you put that." The voice is familiar and I start for the doorway only to be brushed aside by Ellison as he storms out.

"Where's Sandburg?"

I hurry out to find my detective towering over patrolman Spencer, who's leaning against the wall with an ice pack over one eye.

"What do you mean *`where's Sandburg'*?" Spencer lowers the bag, revealing what's going to be a doesy of a black eye, come morning.

"What the hell do you think I mean?" Jim's glowering now, leaning menacingly over the kid. "You're supposed to be guarding him. Now where is he? Is he hurt?"

"I don't know where he is." Spencer looks confused, turning to me for support. "I took the night off for my sister's rehearsal dinner. Blair told me you knew about it, that you'd arranged for another officer to watch him tonight."

"Son of a bitch!" Ellison's heading for the doorway under a full head of steam.

"Jim! Ellison!" I take off after him, barely managing to catch up before he hits the exit. "Where are you going?"

"To make sure my partner is all right, so I can kill him myself."

"All right, if you've got anymore questions regarding the paper, now's the time to ask them." I glance quickly at the clock before looking around at the few students still gathered here and wait a few more seconds while they all shift nervously and go over their notes again. "Okay, if that's it, I expect to see you all in class on Monday and your papers are due at the start of class on Tuesday."

"You know, you still owe me the story of how an anthropologist got involved with the police department." Rachel reminds me as she picks up her purse and joins me at the table. "I'll bet it's a fascinating story."

I'm about to answer her, the standard tale of boy meets cop and decides to study closed societies behind the thin blue line, when movement out the corner of my eye gets my attention and I turn to see Jim walking toward me. No, not walking, that's wrong. Stalking. He's stalking toward me, looking angrier than I can ever remember seeing and all I have time to think is `Holy Shit' before he's crossed the space between us.

"Sandburg, just what the hell do you think you're doing?" I can feel the bruises forming on my arm from the grip he's got on me, but I'm still too stunned to react.

"What's the problem, Detective?" Rachel tries to insert herself between us, but Jim's having none of that.

"The problem is my partner deciding he only needs protection when it's convenient for him." He's tugging on my arm now, leading me toward the stairs like I was some errant child.

"Let go, damn it." I finally pull away from him, aware of my remaining student's standing around watching the melodrama unfolding before them. "Man, I don't know what is up with you lately, but I am sick and tired of your treating me like I'm some kind of child."

"Then quit acting like one." He practically yells at me and I can see the eyes of the student's behind him getting bigger and rounder.

That's it, enough's enough. I am sick of putting up with whatever Jim's attitude of the moment is, so I head back to the table and grab my backpack. "I am, like, so out of here. I don't need this crap from you."

"Not without me, you're not. Consider yourself under house arrest, Sandburg."

I turn away with only an obscene gesture as my response and start down the nearest staircase. I can hear Jim, just a few steps behind me, but refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning and acknowledging him.

Blair hasn't spoken to me since we left the university. Not a single word. And I don't give a fuck. At this moment, I am so angry I could wring his neck. God, what the hell was he thinking taking off like that? Anyone could have gotten to him at the university like that. Anyone. But does he care? Does he give a fuck what it'd do to me if I lost him again? No, he just takes off, running around wherever he pleases, with whomever he pleases. Without telling me one fucking word about it. God damn it!

The elevator comes to a stop with a sickening lurch that leaves my stomach in my throat, or maybe it's been there all along. Ever since that horrible moment I realized that Spencer didn't have a clue where Blair was. I can still taste the bitter bite of the fear I felt in the back of my throat.

Blair's still ignoring me when I finally swallow it back and follow him in, doesn't even react when I slam the door behind me. And that's it. That's the final straw, the one that breaks the camel's back and every last bit of patience I possessed, because I know he's doing it on purpose. He's ignoring me, ignoring my fear and anger, because acknowledging them would mean admitting he was wrong.

"Just what the FUCK did you think you were doing, Sandburg?" I snap and he finally turns and looks at me. "You know better than to go taking off like that without police protection." It feels so good to finally let it all come boiling out, to strike out blindly, without over-thinking every damn thing.

"I wasn't alone." He spits back at me. "I had Rachel with me, in case you didn't notice before you drug me out of there like a . . ."

"Like a what? Huh, Sandburg, what?" Still giving into my emotions, I reach out and grab his arm, my grip brutal as I give him a small shake. "Like a spoiled brat who always has to get his way? Like a stupid idiot who's trying to get himself killed? Is that what this was?" Suddenly I hear my voice, realize what I'm saying and try to stop myself, but it's too late and everything comes spilling out. "Once wasn't enough for you? Drowning so much fun you thought you'd try getting yourself killed again? Is that what you want?"

Oh God.

Shit.

Shit.

What the hell did I just say? Suddenly I'm afraid to look at him, afraid to see him looking at me with eyes filled with anger and hatred. Knowing this time I've finally gone too far.

What the hell did he just say to me? Jim's last accusation is still ringing in my ears when I look up from his hand on my arm. An angry retort forms in the back of my throat, something thick and nasty, full of hate and bitterness. But then I see the expression on Jim's face and it stops me cold, the words dying in my throat.

In all the time I've known Jim, I've never seen him look so . . . vulnerable, so frightened. Not even when Lila died in his arms. That look can't possibly be for me, could it?

My heart screams YES, but my head . . . my head reminds me of all the hurts, mistrusts, misunderstandings, of all the pain caring for Jim Ellison has brought me. And I'm just about to listen to it when Jim starts to turn his face away from me. In that instant I really see the pain and fear radiating from his eyes.

All my carefully built defenses shatter.

What are we doing to each other? Jim is miserable, and I'm hurt and angry and it's got to stop. We can't keep tearing each other apart like this.

I know someone has to take the first step and I'm tired of waiting for it to be him, so I slowly lift my hand, watching for some reaction on Jim's part, but he just closes his eyes and swallows, like he can't bear to watch. Then it's there, resting lightly against Jim's cheek, my thumb skimming softly over his skin. Jim . . . he opens his eyes and looks at me amazed, like he's afraid to blink for fear I'll vanish. But I won't, not anymore. I step closer to him, raise my eyes to meet his and I know the time for vanishing acts is over. Whatever this is, this thing between us, we have to face it now, together.

The brush of Jim's lips against mine is soft and sweet, tentative and all too brief. It's not enough, not nearly enough. I slip the hand that was caressing his cheek around his neck and I pull his mouth back to mine, meeting those tender lips with my own, using my tongue to seek entrance.

His mouth opens to mine, welcoming me in, and I realize with a start that I'm kissing Jim. Really kissing him. And it's best damn kiss of my life. No kiss I've ever given or received has felt as right as this one.

I can feel the restrained strength in his hands as he curls them into my hair, hands that can kill a man, but now they're wrapped tenderly around me, weaving through my hair as he cradles my head between them. Jim tilts my head back, just a little, finding the angle he wants and then his tongue, warm and strong, plunders my mouth, tangling with my own.

God, he tastes so good. Better than I thought he would, which is when I first realize that I have thought about this. Quick, furtive, fleeting thoughts of what it would be like to have his arms around me, his body against mine. Now that it's happening, I never want it to stop. I want to touch every part of him, to feel my way around his body until I know it better than my own.

Finally freed to touch, my hands start exploring the body I'm being held so tightly against, slipping under Jim's shirt and over the hard plains of his back, across skin so smooth it's like caressing velvet. And as I hold Jim, kiss and caress him, some indefinable piece of me, one I never knew was missing, clicks into place, quenching a yearning that I was never able to give voice to and I can't get enough of something I didn't even realize I wanted just moments ago.

Only the desire to look into his eyes forces me to end the kiss, the need to see if he's feeling the same thing I am. But even then we still cling to one another, hands moving, stroking, as we try to get our bearing in this strange, wonderful, frighteningly unfamiliar territory. I don't know if Jim found what he was looking for me, but the expression in his eyes as he looks at me is so tender that it steals my breath away quicker than any kiss could.

Jesus, what am I doing here? All we've done is kiss, and already I know I'm in over my head. No one I've ever loved has had the power to hurt me the way Blair could. I don't think he has a clue how much I really need him, how it would destroy me if I lost him. Again.

All of these are reasons I should end this now, before it's too late and there's nothing left to salvage of my heart. But I know it's already too late. It was too late the second that garbage truck passed over us. When I climbed to my feet and saw a look in his eye that left me feeling more flattened than the truck ever could have.

And now, he's standing here in front of me, silently questioning me with eyes that are filled with desire and I know I'm not strong enough to fight my own desire any longer. I surrender completely to the urge to kiss him again, taking him in my arms and trying to crawl inside him.

I don't remember moving, but by the time the kiss ends we're at the top of the stairs and halfway to the bed. My hands have already worked their way beneath layers of shirts, working them upward as I lower us both down to the bed.

"God, Jim," he gasps out, his voice low and husky with desire, making me harder, needier than I can ever remember being.

I pull both his shirts up and over his head, unmindful of where they end up, and just look at him for a moment. Part of me wants to take the time to study him, to memorize everything about him in case this never happens again, but the rest of me, the stronger part, doesn't want to waste even a second I could be closer to him. So I don't. Removing my own shirt, I toss it off in same direction his went and eliminate the space between us.

Latching onto the skin behind his ear, I suck gently on it before working my way slowly down his neck. I'm not aware of what I'm doing until I feel warmth blossom beneath my lips and look to see the splash of red on his throat, growing darker. I'm inanely pleased by this, by the knowledge that no matter what happens in the morning there will be something left to mark this occasion.

Blair's hand on the back of my head encourages me downward, invites me to continue my ministrations. I give the spot a quick nip, scoring it with my teeth and then move lower, exploring all the different tastes and textures of Blair before settling over a nipple. The one pierced with the thin hoop of silver. Over the years I've caught just the occasional glimpse of it, a flash of light as he moved from the bathroom to his bedroom, a quick sparkle as he buttoned his shirt. My reaction has always been the same, a tightening in my groin, a desire to thread my tongue through it and tug until he goes out of his mind.

Which is exactly what I do. I lavish all of my attention on that nipple, circling it slowly with my tongue, each circle growing smaller, closer to the center; grazing my teeth across it; tugging on that small silver ring as Blair writhes below me and moans above me.

"Jim. Jim. Oh God, Jim." He's panting now, barely able to get my name out, his hands are opening and closing on my shoulders as he fights for control I don't want him to find.

In a show of the strength, I always underestimate in him, I find myself suddenly on my back with Blair perched over me. His lips hover over mine before he begins kissing a trail down my body. Strong hands explore my chest, my arms; his kisses dropping lower and lower until he presses a final kiss just below my navel and looks up into my eyes.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I answer his unasked question with a nod and close my eyes. It's too much, too much of what I've always wanted, and I can't watch as he carefully undoes my jeans and folds them back.

I feel a tentative finger move slowly up the length of my dick. It's quickly joined by its brethren as the stroke becomes more assured and I arch up into his touch, choking back a moan as I get so hard it aches. "Blair."

When I open my eyes, he's staring at his hand in fascination, watching it slip up and down me like a child who's discovered that Santa brought him something so much better than he'd ever hoped for. The sight undoes me and I come in long hard pulses as Blair's mouth drops open and his eyes lift to mine, filled with wonder.

"Jim, that was . . . I never . . ." I can almost hear his brain racing as Blair struggles for the words to express everything that's written on his face. Finally giving up, he starts crawling up the length of my body as I try to catch my breath. He pauses in his journey, hovering over me for a moment, and I feel a single finger touch me, sliding through the come splattered across my chest. That look of wonder is on his face again, clear and joyful, and it sings to my heart.

In a move that would make my D.I. proud, Blair's pinned beneath me once more, with his jeans peeled halfway down his legs. His dick is standing up, proud and flushed, begging to be touched.

"Blair, look at me," I call softly to him, making sure his eyes meet mine before continuing. "I love you." I don't wait for his reply, too scared of what it will be, before swooping down to swallow him.

Blair gasps and I can hear his fingernails digging into the sheets, grasping handfuls as he clings to his remaining control. But this time, I'm playing to win this battle of wills, pulling up to swirl my tongue around the crown before plunging back down, taking him even deeper and swallowing.

He lets out one, long, low moan, and loses control, thrusting his hips up and up and then cries out my name and pulses long and hard down my throat. Once I'm sure I've gotten all he has to give, I release his dick, letting slide slowly from my mouth, and turn to kiss the sharp angle of his hip bone before following a random trail back up his body, kissing, nipping, tasting as I please.

"Jim . . ." Blair reaches for me as I lie down next to him and I capture his hand in mine, bringing it to my lips and presses a kiss into the palm. I can tell he wants to talk about this, but I'm too afraid of what he might have to say and if it's only going to be this one night, I want the whole thing.

"Shh, please, not now. In the morning." I quiet his words with a tender kiss and pull him against my chest. "We'll talk in the morning." A soft nod against my shoulder is his only reply as he wraps his arms around me and settles in.

Safe. Warm. I wake with a feeling of contentment before I'm even consciously aware of the warm body pressed up behind me and the arm wrapped around my chest. Memories of the night before, my hand on Jim, watching what it did to him, the way he touched me, the look in his eyes as he told me he loved me, all come flooding back and I can feel my face flushing.

What happened last night . . . I've never felt anything like it before. The power, the joy, of touching someone I love and seeing how deeply it affected them. The way Jim touched me, the way he looked at me, like I was everything he ever wanted. I don't think anyone has ever wanted me like that before.

And if it were just that, just the desire I saw in his eyes and felt in his hands and mouth, I think that alone would be enough for me to die happy. But there's so much more. He loves me. God, he looked me straight in the eye and told me he loved me. I know Jim. I know how hard it is for him to put what he's feeling into words. I know that when he does it, he means it, with all he is. And he loves me.

I feel like I could fly.

"Blair?" Jim's voice is a brush of air, exhaled against the back of my neck, soft and tentative.

"'Mornin'," I reply, rolling over to face him. He looks worried, so afraid I'm going to reject him or deny what happened between us. But that's not going to happen, that's never going to happen, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to wipe that worried frown off his face and make sure he never doubts how much I love him. "I love you."

He looks startled and torn between joy and disbelief as I repeat myself. "I love you." This time I punctuate my statement with a long, slow kiss.

Jim breaks the kiss, pulling away to leave me breathless and wanting more, still looking as though he's sure his ears are playing tricks on him, and holds my head between his palms. "Say it again," he demands.

"I love you. I, Blair Sandburg, love you, James Ellison." The look in Jim's eye as he finally believes me is worth everything it took to get us here. I've never seen him look this happy. I've never been this happy. I'm not sure what that says about either of us, but I know it's something I'm never going to let get away from me.

"Blair, are sure about this?" His eyes are begging me to be sure as he holds to his last bastion of doubt.

"Never more so." I seal my pledge with a kiss. One that starts slow and sweet, a brush of lips that becomes something deeper as we both give ourselves over to it, until we're so into each other that I can't tell where he ends and I begin.

The world starts spinning around me, but I don't know if it's from lack of oxygen because I refuse to give up Jim's wonderful, incredible mouth, or the heat pooling in my groin as Jim maps out my body with strong, sure hands. I just know that I never want this to stop and I never want to leave this bed.

My hands are anything but still, moving slowly over Jim's skin, feeling the strength of his muscles under all that soft, beautiful skin. God, I can't believe how good he feels, how right it is to be doing this with him. Jim's holding me tightly against him, his hands driving the last coherent thought from my head. But I manage to work a hand between us and skim it down his chest, over the strong heart that sings so sweetly to me, until I can wrap my hand once more around his dick. The feeling is just as amazing as it was last night, feeling him grow harder under my touch, listening to him fighting so hard to keep his moans inside. That I can do this to him, it's . . . it's more than I have words for.

"Jesus, Blair." His head falls back, exposing that strong, beautiful neck as he struggles to catch his breath. "God, yes, harder." His hand moves over mine, directing my movements. "Right there."

He bucks up once more into my hand, groaning harder, and I think that's going to be it, but in the next second I'm lying flat on back and Jim's diving down to explore my mouth. His hands slip down my arms and he takes my hands in his, threading his finger through mine and bringing them over my head to press down into the mattress.

Then he lowers himself over me, agonizingly slowly and our cocks touch for the first time. God, he's hot, he's so hot; I can feel him burning into me and don't want to think anymore. I just want to feel this, forever. I thrust up into his heat, harder and faster, feeling his weight and strength as he tries to press me even further into the mattress. It's so good, so right and then I am flying.

"So, that's it?"

"What's it?" Blair's looking at me curiously as he stands in front of the stove scrambling eggs in my robe, like it's an everyday occurrence.

"This." I motion between us. "You don't have a million questions about it?"

"No, man, should I?" he's got a cheeky grin on his face as he asks. "Do you want me to?"

"No, I don't. I just thought," I shrug vaguely. "I thought you'd want to talk this to death. I mean, it's a pretty big development between us. At least, I think it is," I continue, distracted by the thought that maybe he doesn't.

"Stop that." Blair leans into my personal space, dishing up the eggs and kissing the frown off my face at the same time. "Jim, I'm happy, I'm in love and I'm starving. Anything else is just details that can work themselves out. Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay." I dig into my eggs, absurdly relieved to have skipped the conversation portion of the morning. I'm halfway through my eggs and wondering if there's some way I can convince Blair that this is an occasion that calls for bacon when I notice that the silence between us has grown uncomfortable. Looking across the table I see that Blair's stopped eating and started pushing his breakfast around the plate. "Blair?"

"Listen, Jim, about last night," he sighs and drops his fork, "there's something I need to say to you."

My stomach ties itself in knots. Shit, he's changed his mind already.

"Jim, stop that." Blair shakes his head and knocks me lightly in the side of the head. "I'm talking about taking off by myself, or at least planning to before Rachel caught on to me."

"What about it?" I ask, trying to school the anger from my voice.

From the look he gives me, half-guilt and half-exasperation, I obviously didn't do a very good job of it, but I'm getting points for trying.

"I'm sorry. Not everything you said last night was true, but enough of it was," he hesitates for a moment and looks down at his plate again. "Enough that I feel like I owe you an apology."

"You scared the crap out of me, Chief," I admit, covering one of his hands with my own and squeezing it. "When I realized that Spencer wasn't with you . . . I know I overreacted at the library, but I can't go through that again, Blair. I just can't." Standing, I pull him to his feet and into my arms. "It would kill me this time."

"Go through what, man?" He's looking up at me now, blue eyes radiating concern. "Jim, what are you talking about?"

"Losing you." I hold him tighter, burying my face in the fragrant curls surrounding his face. "It's the one thing I could never recover from."

"Jim, you haven't lost me." I can hear that he's still confused, but it's not stopping him from trying to comfort me, strong hands rubbing reassuringly up and down my back. "I'm right here."

"And I thank every God I know of for that, but I did lose you once. At that damn fountain." The room feels colder, just thinking about it. "I know it was just a few minutes, but it felt like forever, it felt like the end of everything."

"Jim, I . . ."

"Just promise me," I grab him by the shoulders and push him back to look in his eyes, "Promise me it won't happen again. Promise me you won't leave me again."

"Jim, there's no way I can . . ." Something in my eyes must have told him how desperately I need to hear this, because he stops and just nods for a second. "Yeah, okay, I promise. I promise I won't leave you, not ever." Then he grins, breaking the tension by reaching up, grabbing my hand off his shoulder and twisting his little finger around mine. "Pinkie swear, man."

My laugh is loud and unexpected and I grab him around the shoulders, pulling him in for a quick, hard kiss. "You're a nut, Chief," I tell him fondly.

"Yeah, but I'm your nut," he replies with another grin.

I'm about to kiss him again, intent on replacing that grin with something breathless and wanton when the phone rings and all I end up with is a view of the back of his head. Of course, dropping my gaze a few inches is a reward all it's own as he bends over the back of the couch to grab the phone. The view derails my train of thought enough that I'm a bit thrown when he hands me the phone.

"Simon," he informs me, offering it to me.

"Simon? Yes, sir." I glance at my watch. "Umm, about thirty-five minutes?" Blair waves to get my attention. "Hold on, sir. Yeah?"

"If you're talking about going into the station, I need to swing by the university and pick up my car. If it's still there," he finishes under his breath.

"Make that about an hour, sir. We've got to go by Rainier and pick-up Sandburg's car. Right, sir." Hanging up, I toss the phone back on the couch and tug Blair closer, to give him that kiss. "Simon says to move our asses."

"Right," he breathes into my mouth. "Asses. Moving."

I have a serious desire to ask Jim to pinch me. There's no way things in my life could be working out this well. Instead, I settle for squeezing the hand that's holding mine as we pull off the expressway and onto the campus.

"Where'd you park?"

"Hmm?" I look up from studying his hand, the way it fits so perfectly with mine. "Oh, around the back of the library."

"Gotcha." He smiles at me, all sweet and slightly goofy, and I swear I can feel my heart flip-flop in my chest. At this rate, my heart's going to get a better workout than my . . .. I flush at the rest of that thought, visions of Jim telling me he loves me flashing through my head and I can almost feel the scorching heat of his mouth surrounding me.

"What?" Jim's looking at me now, a little bemused.

"Nothing." I shrug and grin. "Just thinking about dinner, that's all. What time you think Simon will let us out tonight?"

"Depends on what we come up with," he admits, watching me uncertainly.

I'm about to tell him about all the things I can think of to come up with when he makes the final turn into the parking lot and the real world comes crashing down around my head again. My car is sitting alone under the light pole nearest the door, covered in large yellow letters:

WHO ARE YOU NOW?

Something's changed. I'm not sure what, but it's obvious looking out at Ellison and Sandburg that something's different between them. Like maybe something that was never meant to be broken finally got fixed.

Or maybe I was just up too late last night. I've thought things looked like they were getting better before and been wrong. But this time, it doesn't feel that way. I just wish I could put my finger on what seems different this time. Maybe then I'd be a little more confident that it was a permanent fix.

Through the blinds, I can see Jim lean in behind Sandburg and slip a hand under his hair. There's a subtle intimacy to the scene that makes me reverse my previous thought. Whatever my personal thoughts on the subject may be, as Jim's supervisor and the person ultimately responsible for Sandburg's ride along, there are some things it's just better I didn't know.

The forensics report on the paint samples taken from Sandburg's car is lying on top of my desk. Nothing helpful there. The paint was a common brand, found in dozens of hardware stores around the city. No fingerprints. No witnesses. No evidence. Nothing but the knowledge that our killer's still out there and has, most likely, already taken his next victim.

"Ellison. Sandburg. Connor. Burke." I wait while they file in, noticing the way Jim slides his chair closer to Sandburg's as he sits. "What have you come up with so far?"

"Not a whole lot, sir," Jim admits, somehow seeming to move closer to Sandburg without moving an inch. "Missing Persons is putting together a list of every woman reported missing in the last 48 hours that could come even remotely close to matching our profile."

"What are the chances the latest victim is still alive?"

Burke looks uncomfortable as all eyes turn to her. "Given the time lapse between the disappearance of each victim and coroner's estimated time of death, I'd say we still have a small window of opportunity, but it's fading fast."

"All right, Jim, get back on the phone with Missing Persons. See what they've got so far, then split it up between you and start tracking them down. Burke, I've had to take Brown and Rafe off of this." I plow through Jim's protest before it can start. "This isn't our only case and the Chief politely pointed out that maybe I had too much man power on it. So, you'll be working with Connor for the duration."

"Yes, sir." Burke and Connor both hurry out, neither looking like they're quite comfortable with this assignment. Too bad.

"Sir, about the . . ."

"Cut me some slack here, okay, Jim?" I sigh wearily and lean back in my chair. "I know you're not happy about the cut in manpower. Neither am I, but the Chief is right. As worried as we all are about Sandburg and the other probable victims, this isn't the only major crime being committed."

"Simon's right, Jim." Sandburg moves up behind Jim and squeezes his shoulder lightly. "Besides, I've got all the police protection I could need, day and night." There's a light, teasing lilt to Sandburg's voice as he finishes that makes Ellison blush slightly and again I'm torn between curiosity and protocol.

"Yeah, all right," Jim grudgingly agrees. "Sorry, Simon. I'll let you know what we come up with."

"Oh man, just shoot me now." Blair's groans, dropping face first into the couch.

He looks exhausted and I can't blame him, we just spent a very long day tracking down pissed off soon-to-be ex-girlfriends, annoyed spouses, employees in the middle of an unplanned vacation and a small handful of truly missing individuals to come up with squat.

"Naw," I reply, plopping down on the other end of the couch and pulling his head into my lap. "I've grown kind of fond of you. I think I'll keep you."

"Kind of fond?" He rolls over and gives me the evil eye. "After last night, you better be a little more then kind of fond."

"Very fond?" I suggest, bending down for a kiss.

"That's better." He grins and pulls me down until our mouths meet again. Kissing quickly evolves into groping, and fatigue evaporates, along with our clothing.

Thirty minutes later tired, sticky and happier than I can remember being in a long time, I start throwing together a quick dinner while Blair takes a shower. Five minutes later, I'm humming as I toss the pasta into the boiling water. Humming? Tuning into Blair, I can hear that he's humming the same tune in the shower and realize that I've been unconsciously monitoring him this whole time.

I briefly considering teasing Sandburg about the humming, knowing that mostly he'd be pleased to know how easily I tuned into him, using my senses without conscious thought, but decide to keep the knowledge to myself. My own guilty little pleasure. Instead, I turn the stereo on, tuning it to the soft jazz station Blair listens to late at night when he's home alone grading.

Another guilty pleasure admitted, if only to myself, I listen to him from the parking lot sometimes when I first get home. Not for long, usually just a couple minutes, just to reassure myself that he's home and safe.

"Hey, Jim, you need some help with that?" Blair steps up behind me, still warm from the shower and wrapped in nothing more than a towel.

Temptation, thy name is Sandburg.

But this time, I resist, just barely. "Why don't you throw something on, before I forget all about dinner?" I tease, watching him fight the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Then you can take over while I catch a quick shower."

"Sure, man." He backs toward his, soon to be ex-, I hope, bedroom, watching me with mischievous eyes. "Anything special you had planned for that pasta?"

"No, nothing . . ." I look back over to find him standing in the doorway, towel missing, watching me. I try to think of a clever remark, but the sight of him standing there, so open to me, robs me of rational thought. "Blair."

"Shh." He crosses the room and strokes one broad thumb across my lower lip. "It's late, we're both tired. Come to bed." Then he turns, moving gracefully toward the stairs.

I barely have the presence of mind to turn off the stove before following after him.

Danger.

Fear.

Cold. Pain.

Fight. Escape?

Pain.

Run!

Faster, faster.

Light. Comfort.

Warmth.

Pain? Companion?

Confusion.

Light - warmth, comfort, safety.

Companion - sorrow, pain, need.

Light?

Companion?

Need.

Running. Flying.

Love.

I move slowly, carefully disentangling myself from Jim, and roll over so I can watch him sleep. He looks so peaceful in sleep, the lines in his face smoothed out and the worries of the day forgotten. I spend a few minutes just watching him, pushing aside my troubling thoughts.

It seemed so real. More like a memory than a dream. But I don't know how that can be. The things I felt, or thought I felt, they're so far from my realm of experience that I don't even know where to begin to process them.

I was the wolf. I could feel its pain and fear, its need to flee, to run, to escape. I felt the cold wet ground beneath my feet. I saw the light. It was so warm, and it felt like I had never been. Not until I saw it. I could feel the comfort coming from it, the safety it promised. The wolf, I, we wanted that so badly, wanted to just let all of the pain and fear and uncertainty go and be free. It was all so close, it would've been so easy just to run into it and let everything go.

But then I heard the other. I felt the other, its pain so crystal clear, piercing me, making my steps falter. It tore me away from the bright promise of the light and drew me toward its need, my need to comfort it, to take away its pain, stronger than my desire for the safety and warmth that came from the light.

Then, the most miraculous thing of all, as I felt the other move through me, I felt a wash of love like I've never known, filling every part of me during that brief moment we were joined.

That's what has me lying here, quietly watching Jim sleep, torn between the fear of failure and the joy of discovery, because I think I really believe it. I believe that my dream is what really happened, that those feelings that flowed through me, that deep love that filled every part of me, was Jim. That that's how he feels about me, how he's felt all along. Please, God, don't let me screw this up. Don't let me hurt him, because he deserves so much better than that.

"Hey, why the long face?" Jim's staring at me through sleepy eyes, a worry line creasing his forehead, and I have an urgent need to erase it.

"I love you."

He looks startled and pleased by my admission, but it isn't enough. I need to feel him, to find a way to reconnect with him in the here and now. I need to make him know that I feel it too, that my love for him runs just as deep.

"I love you," I repeat it, knowing that I could say it a thousand times a day and never come close to making him feel the way I did in those precious few seconds we were one.

"I love you." This time I quiet the concern growing in his eyes with a kiss, pulling him down and feeling his solid strength over me.

"Blair, what's wrong?" The worry is back as Jim pulls back, brushing the hair away from my face with strong, sure hands.

"Nothing. Nothing. I just, I had a dream, a memory, I'm not really sure," I babble, knowing I'm not explaining it well, but unable to stop myself. "At the fountain. I was dead and . . . Jim?" I'm suddenly aware that he's gone silent and still above me. "Jim?"

"I'm sorry," he whispers, so low I almost don't catch the words as he rolls away from me.

"Jim, no, it wasn't, it wasn't like that. It was incredible," I tell him, making him turn back and look at me. "I was the wolf, and at first it was frightening and painful, but then the most incredible thing happened. Jim, I felt you. When we joined together, when you brought me back. I felt you. I felt everything you were feeling, your pain and fear that you'd lost me, your love. Oh God, Jim, there was so much love." I take his face in my hands, smoothing kisses across it as I continue. "No one's ever loved me like that and I'm so scared I'm going to screw it up. I don't ever want to hurt you."

"You can't, you couldn't," Jim assures me, returning my kisses and holding me tightly. "As long as you love me, that's all I need. Just love me, just don't leave me."

"Never," I promise with all my heart, knowing this time how much my words really mean to Jim. "Not in this lifetime or the next."

Words are lost as we start to move together, hands caressing, bodies moving in sync, lips parting. I'm so close, so close to that incredible edge, and I can feel Jim, hovering there with me, but this time I want more, I want something of the moment in my memory. I want the two of us joined body and soul.

"Jim, stop, hold on," I pant, barely able to form the words.

"What?" He looks dazed, trying to catch his breath and puzzle out why I stopped him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, I just . . ." I blush, not sure how to ask for what I want. "Jim, I want you to . . . I want . . ." Taking a deep breath, I steal my courage and plunge on. "Jim, I want you to fuck . . . inside me."

At first Jim doesn't say anything, his only response to my request is one long shudder that runs the length of his body as he drops his head on my shoulder. "God, Blair," his voice is choked and rough. "Are you sure about this?"

I turn his face toward mine and breathe my answer into his mouth. "Yes. I want this, Jim. I want you."

"Blair, you've never . . ." He drifts his fingertips across my face, gently exploring its contours as he gazes at me in wonder and astonishment. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," I promise. "Couldn't. Please, Jim. I don't know if I can explain why, but I need this. I need to feel you inside me. I need to feel us joined again." It's hard to continue in the face of all the love shining back at me, so I take his hand in mine and hold it over my heart. "Please?"

"Yes." Jim kisses me, long and hard, and I almost forget what we were doing, almost forget my own name, lost in the passion his touch inspires in me. When Jim finally breaks the kiss and starts to pull away from me, I protest, reaching for him, and seeking out his lips again.

"Just a second, I promise." He presses a finger against my lips. "I just need to get something."

He rolls away and I'm vaguely aware of the sound of him rifling through the drawer in the nightstand as I admire the long, clean lines of his back. Giving into the ever present urge to touch, I let my hand ghost slowly down his back, outlining each muscle, tracing his spine, as I move lower and lower. His hipbone fascinates me and I follow the path it blazes until I find my fingers wrapped around his dick, it's hard and hot and wet, just for me.

Touching it sends my pulse racing, makes me harder in sympathy. How did I go this long without touching him like this? Without touching him every day?

"Blair, Jesus, if you don't stop that we'll never make it to . . ." And Jim is over me again, his tongue demanding entrance as one hand starts stroking my ass, moving gently over and around it.

I don't know where Jim learned to kiss like this, like there's nothing and no one more important than this moment, like he wants to crawl inside me, to taste and touch everything I am. He should give lessons. Except that I'll never let him kiss anyone else again, not like this. Never anyone else, never again.

Once more I'm so caught up in his kiss, in his taste, that I'm unaware of anything else until I feel his finger brush lightly over the place I want him to be. It sends chills through me and I'm suddenly more aware of my body than I've ever been. Every part of me, every cell, every molecule reacts to his touch. It frightens and thrills me all at once and I want more.

I must have said something out loud, because Jim's telling me to be patient, saying we have to go slow, slower, be careful, but then he's kissing me again and all that exists are his hands and his mouth and the way they're touching me.

I can feel his finger, that glorious, wonderful finger, it's cool and slick and pressing inward, teasing me slowly open. In, out, in, out. I think I'm going to lose my mind if he doesn't do something more, something soon.

"Jim, please, please, more," I'm begging, pleading with him to hurry, to give me more, and I don't care how it sounds, just as long as he does it. "Please, I need you. I need you."

"Not yet." His voice sounds as ragged as I feel. I can tell he's fighting his desire, fighting the urge to just push me down and plunge into me. Oh God, just the thought of that is enough to almost push me over the edge. But I can't let go, not yet, not until he's in me, with me.

I can feel the pressure increase, the small bit of pain, as Jim adds a second finger. He turns them slowly, opening me thoroughly until there's nothing left of the pain, there's nothing left but the need for him. Another finger, moving slower than the others, and the only part of me that's still sane wonders how Jim can be so patient now, how he can move so carefully with all this between us. But then I know the answer, I could feel it moving through me as he willed me back to life. His love for me is stronger than anything else, stronger than my need or his desire.

"Now, Jim. Now." I thrust back on his fingers, taking them as deeply within as I can.

"Yes." He assents, finally, turning me away from him and onto my stomach. "Tell me if it hurts. Promise me, you'll . . ."

"Yes," I hiss my answer, raising my ass to rub it against him, demanding an end to conversation.

Strong hands caress my thighs, parting them, and I can feel Jim's weight settling in behind me. He nips gently at the small of my back, following it with the long sweep of his tongue up my back, tracing a lazy trail to my neck.

"You taste so good," he whispers in my ear. "I've always known you would, always wanted to taste you, all of you." One hand braces against my hip while the other slips in to expose me to him. I feel the tentative nudge of his cock, pressing slowly forward, seeking entrance. Then his teeth sink into my ear, distracting me with the pleasure/pain of it as he slips past the resistant ring of muscle.

Oh God, he's in me. Jim's really inside of me. Moving so slowly forward, pulling back and then forward once again. I want to scream at him to hurry, beg him to move faster, to fill me completely and never stop, but I can feel the tension in his body, I know he won't be hurried; he won't take the chance of hurting me. And then finally, blessedly, he's in, all the way in, and I can feel the hard length of him splitting me, filling me, joining us.

"God, Blair," he's panting against my neck. "It's so tight, so hot. God, you feel, you feel, so good, so right. I need, I need to, I'm sorry, I have to move. I have to . . ."

I want to tell him not to be sorry, but words are beyond me, thought is beyond me, all that's left is sensation. Instinct takes over and all I can do is move, thrusting my body back into his, matching my rhythm to Jim's. But it's not enough, I need more, I need all of him harder, faster, deeper.

Raising my hands, I reach out and grab the railing in front of me, wrapping my fingers around the cold metal and using it for leverage as I thrust back harder, taking Jim even deeper, welcoming him into my body, wanting to feel him touch my heart, my soul.

Behind me, I hear a strangled gasp and then Jim's hands are wrapping around mine. His fingers thread through mine, and he's pulling hard, pulling himself forward in time with my backward thrusts, reaching so deep in me that I see the stars, and touching something inside me that sends pleasure soaring through me. Jim groans, latching his teeth into my neck and thrusting again and again into that spot until I'm incoherent with joy.

"I love you." I can barely make out Jim's words over the pounding of my heart. I'm barely aware of his arms wrapping around me and pulling me upward until I fall down into his lap. But I feel the difference it makes, feel him slip just that much further into me, the change of angle allowing him to pound even harder into that place that sends me flying.

And then I'm coming. Coming harder than I ever have in my life and it feels like death and birth and forever.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," Blair's soft chanting finally rouses me and I bring my arms up to wrap around him.

"You okay?" I ask softly, enjoying his warm, pliant weight across my chest.

"Yes, no, I . . . Why didn't anyone ever tell me?"

"Tell you what?" Just as I'm about to start worrying, he turns over and looks at me. I've always been aware of Blair's beauty, but when he looks at me now, he seems to glowing with happiness.

"That anything could feel like that, man," he laughs and kisses me, slow and sweet. "Jim, that was just . . . incredible? Earth shattering? Mind blowing?"

"Not bad?" I suggest, earning myself a smack on the arm.

"Yeah, not bad. We're doing that again, man," he proclaims, snuggling in next to me. "We're definitely doing that again."

"Yeah," I reply softly, "we sure are." I sit up, ignoring his murmured protest and start pulling the blankets back. "Come on, Darwin, the pillows are up here."

"Don't wanna move," he mumbles into the bedspread.

"You'll thank me in the morning." I grab his arm and guide him toward the head of the bed, making sure he settles on the side away from the staircase, and wrap myself around him.

I'm not sure how much time has passed when the phone starts ringing, but it's an unwelcome intrusion and I consider ignoring it completely until I hear Connor's voice on the answering machine. With a wave of regret, I carefully disentangle myself from Blair and grab the extension next to the bed.

"Connor?" A quick glance at the clock tells me that it's nowhere near as early as it feels. "No, it's okay. Did you and Burke come up with anything?" I listen while Megan outlines their frustrating results from yesterday and this morning's search. "Yeah, okay. No, Sandburg's still asleep, so why don't you give us about an hour and we'll meet you at the station."

I hang up the phone and turn to watch Blair sleep for a few moments more before waking him. If it weren't for the worry I feel knowing there's a nut out there with Blair's name at the bottom of his list, I could almost believe this was a dream. I just don't get this lucky. The thought sends a chill down my spine. I could lose this so easily, too easily.

"Blair? Come on, Chief, time to get up." He mutters something I'm pretty sure was an insult under his breath and rolls face down into the pillow. "Sorry, Chief, Connor and Burke are expecting us at the station in under an hour. Let's go." I slap him on the ass and manage to suppress a chuckle as he winces.

"Ouch." He sits up finally, looking grumpy and rumpled and way too tempting considering how long we have to get to the station. "You are a sadist man. What time is it anyway?"

"Quarter after nine."

"Oh man, really? How did it get that late?" He squints at the clock and scrubs a hand over his face. "Yeah, okay. I just need a shower and a gallon of coffee."

"I'll tell you what, you hit the shower and I'll start the coffee."

"I've got a better idea." Blair grabs my arms and starts tugging me down toward. "Shower together and pick up coffee on the way."

"Pick up coffee on the way?" I ask, ghosting my mouth over his. "Any plans what we should do with the extra time?"

"Oh yeah, man, I've got plans. Lots of plans.

Ever have the feeling you missed out on something?

Blair's had trouble hiding his grin from the moment he walked in the door, and even Ellison's being civil. Which is a big step up from the other night at the library.

Maybe it's just my suspicious nature, but there's something on Blair's neck that looks remarkably like a hickey. Given that I know Ellison's not about to let Blair out of his sight even for the time it takes to run to the bathroom, it leads me to only one conclusion: Blair's definitely off the market now. See, they did teach us more than how to piss-off the locals at Quantico.

I just wish all of that expensive education would give me a clue where to look next for our copycat. Two days worth of research and legwork and we still haven't got any idea where to look next. It doesn't help knowing what the message left on Blair's car means. But until something new turns up, the only thing we seem to be able to do is hurry up and wait.

"Bleeding idiots!"

The whole bullpen jumps as my current temporary partner slams down her phone and lets loose with what I can only assume is a string of expletives from down under.

"Megan?" Most of the cops present just turn a blind ear toward it and get back to whatever they were working on, but Blair's already at her desk, looking concerned, before either Ellison or I have a chance to react. "Who's an idiot?"

"Those stupid ninnies down in Missing Persons," Megan answers, nearly foaming at the mouth as she waves a piece of note-paper at Blair. "They took this call last night and didn't see fit to tell us until now."

"What call?" Blair turns pale as he reads and immediately shoots a look over at Ellison.

"What is it?" I try to get a look myself, but Ellison snatches it out of his hand before I get a chance. "What?"

Ellison doesn't answer, just shakes his head mutely and hands me the piece of paper.

Susan Frasier.

"Miss Carter, can you tell us when the last time you saw your roommate was?" Blair hands me a box of Kleenex and I pass it to the hysterical young woman in front of me.

"It was Friday afternoon." She nods gratefully and blows her nose before continuing. "Suzy was going to stop by the bookstore on campus and see if they got the new copies of the book for Professor Michaelson's class in. She heard he assigned a lot of reading and she wanted to get a head start."

"I took Michaelson my sophomore year, she's right, he's tough." Blair sits next to me, giving the girl a reassuring smile.

"Did she give you any idea where she might be going afterward?"

"She was planning on meeting Jeff, her boyfriend, and going down the coast for a couple of days." She blows her nose again and continues. "That's why I didn't think it was strange that she wasn't home the last couple nights. But then Jeff called and wanted to talk to her and that's when I realized . . ."

She crying again and while I'm trying to decide how to handle it, Blair slides off the couch and sits on the edge of her chair, letting her sob into his jacket. Sometimes I really hate my job.

"Miss Carter, did Susan say anything to you about anyone unusually hanging around her? Maybe following her around?" I press on, knowing the girl's upset, but needing to get through my questions.

"No, nothing." She wipes her face and tries to carry on.

"Has anything strange happened to her lately?"

"No. Yes. Well, I don't know if this is the kind of strange you mean, but . . ." she's clears her throat. "She was on campus when that guy drowned."

"She was?" I don't know where Blair finds the voice to ask that question, because all I can do is sit and stare of the girl in shock.

"Yeah, she was really creeped out by it." The girl's nodding vigorously now. "We heard it was a murder and all she could think about was how if she'd left a little earlier she could've been there when it happened. It was just like the name thing."

"The name thing? What name thing?" Blair gives me a look as I snap at the girl.

"Well, you'll probably think it's kind of stupid, but a couple years ago there was this woman with the same name as Susan who was murdered." She misses the look Sandburg and I exchange over her head. "Suzy was really freaked. She kept thinking it was going to be like that Terminator thing."

"Terminator thing?" I look over to see if Blair's as confused as I am.

"You know, like in the movie where the killer knows he's supposed to kill Sarah Connor, but when he looks in the phone book there are three of them, so he starts killing them in alphabetical order," she explains. "I'm sorry. I told you it was stupid."

"No, it's not," Blair assures. "Is there anything else you can think of to tell us?"

"No." She shakes her head and takes the card I offer her.

"If you think of anything else, give me a call, all right? My work and home numbers are on here. We'll have an officer stationed outside if you need anything."

"Do you really think that's necessary?" She looks scared again.

"I hope not."

Megan and Rachel are waiting when we get back to the station. It only takes a few minutes for us to find out that their talk with the boyfriend garnered about as much information as ours with the roommate. He got message on his answering machine from his mother and had to drive home and visit an ailing grandfather. Only when he got there, his mother didn't know anything about the call and his grandfather was fine. Fit as a fiddle, according to Megan's notes.

So now we're all stuck sitting around the station, watching the hands on the clock move slower and slower, waiting for inspiration or, God help us, our killer to strike again`. It totally bites. We know this girl is out there, more than likely in trouble, quite possibly already dead, and there's nothing we can do about it. Sometimes I don't know how Jim can stand to do this day after day. It's hard enough for me to observe, sometimes, without feeling like I'm responsible for everyone's lives and well-being.

"Argh!" Rachel stands and walks over to the board with all of the victim's pictures tacked up on it. "There has to be something we're missing. Some connection to David Lash that we're just not seeing." She runs a hand through her hair and turns back to the table. "What about his family?"

"The only relative we could find was his father." Jim digs the file out and tosses it over the table to her. "According to him, the younger brother died when he was five and the mother became a drinker. He hasn't seen her since."

"Yeah, I saw the transcript, sounds like she was up for a mother of the year award," Rachel remarks sarcastically as she flips through the file. "And there were no other siblings?"

"He didn't mention any," Jim replies.

"And you never found the mother?" She wonders aloud.

"No, but things were all happening pretty fast. We didn't get much of a chance to, and then Lash was dead and it didn't matter. At least we thought it didn't," Jim finishes quietly and I can already see where this train of thought is leading.

"Hey, it didn't." I kick him lightly under the table. "Jim, man, it's not like you dropped the ball on this one. The case was over; you had other cases. And this may turn out to be nothing."

"He's right," Rachel says. "It's late, we're all tired, and I'm grasping at straws here. Why don't we wrap this up and start fresh in the morning?"

While Jim nods and starts gathering the files together, I start thinking about tomorrow's class. Two more classes, one day of finals and a day of grading and then I'm free for the rest of summer. I just hope I can get through them without anything else happening.

"Come on in, Spencer."

Ellison opens the door before I knock, leaving me standing on the doorstep wondering how the hell he did that and how he knew it was me.

"Is, ah, is Sandburg ready?" I haven't talked to anyone since my confrontation with Ellison at the hospital and I half expected to get a phone call telling me I was off the case.

"He'll be out in a sec." Ellison assures me, then looks down the hall. "Spencer's here, Chief, get a move on."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming." Blair hobbles into sight, trying to walk and tie his shoes at the same time. "Hey Jason, how was the wedding?"

"Long and boring," I assure him. "You didn't miss a thing."

"No, hey, as long as I'm not one of the principles, I love weddings." Blair grabs his backpack and starts toward the door. "They're what anthropology is all about. Rituals, traditions, family-bonding patterns, ceremonies passed down through the ages. Great stuff."

"Hung-over grooms, angry brides, missing rings . . . oh yeah, great stuff."

"Sandburg, hold up a minute. Don't forget you need to stop at the library and . . ." Ellison grabs Blair by the sleeve, pulling him back into the apartment and shutting the door in my face. I don't know what he said to Sandburg, but he looks pretty damned pleased when he comes back out.

"Come on." Blair's practically bouncing down the stairs. "Maybe if we get there a little early we can actually get out on time."

"What's the rush?" I follow after him, laughing. "You're just going to be stuck hanging around the station after that."

"Yeah, I know," he answers, and I swear he's bouncing even more. "But it's not such a bad place to be, if you know the right people."

Glancing at the bag lying on the seat next to me, I feel, for all the world, like a lovesick dork. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely for a lovesick dork, this thought does nothing to wipe the grin from my face or sway me from my appointed task. That being to surprise Blair with lunch, and maybe, if I'm really lucky, to get Spencer out of the office long enough to cop a nice, long feel.

Parking in front of Hargrove, I grab the sandwich bag and start to extend my senses, hoping to tease myself with some early signs of my lover's presence. Lover? I'm stunned motionless for a few seconds by this thought. Blair and I are really lovers now. I've wanted this for so long, dreamed of it so many times, that the reality of it is almost more than I can comprehend.

Steadfastly ignoring the fountain, unwilling to let the memories it holds impinge on the joy I'm feeling, I head for the front stairs, only to stop when the sound I'm searching for coming from another direction.

" . . . swear to God, I'm not kidding man. We walked in and there was this huge pile of manure . . ."

Spencer's laughter overlays Blair's voice as he finishes the story, relating how sure he was I was going to strangle him for leaving a spare key out. Snorting and shaking my head, remembering quashing just such an urge when I realized what had happened, I start across the campus, letting Blair's warm tones lead the way.

He's giving menu suggestions to Spencer. When I open my hearing a bit more, expanding it into the space surrounding him, I can make just enough of the idle chatter going on to realize that they're at Tony's, a small sandwich shop just across from the front of the university. Well, so much for surprising him with lunch, but hopefully we can still eat together.

Picking up my pace, I clear the administration building just in time to see them exit. Blair's walking backwards, hands gesturing wildly as he launches into another tale revolving around our time spent together. A small breeze lifts his curls, spreading them around his face, and my heart flutters with the memory of all the times I've wanted to sink my fingers into them and the knowledge that now I can.

He's still walking backwards as they approach the corner, oblivious to his surroundings, and I can't help wondering how he does that without running into something or someone. Watching him step into the street, an exasperated "Sandburg" is about to roll off my lips when I hear the other sound. An engine revving. I'm not sure why the sound of this particular motor caught my attention, but I've learned to trust my instincts, so I turn and zero in on the car in question.

Dark sunglasses and a Jags cap hide the features of the figure behind the wheel, but the white-knuckles clinging to the steering wheel and the angry grimace tell me that the driver's intentions are anything but honorable. Following their line of sight, my heart clenches as I watch Blair take another step into the street.

"SANDBURG! GET BACK!" The car pulls away from the curb with a piercing squeal as I shout my warning and start to run.

Damn it, no. Instead of stepping back, Blair turns to stare at me in shock as the car bears down on him. I'm not going to make it in time. "BLAIR!"

A flash of yellow cuts through the space where Blair is standing, accompanied by the sickening thud of steel meeting flesh. Jesus, God, no. I shove my way through the crowd that seems to have materialized from thin air, focused on the strong, fast rhythm of Blair's heart. He's alive. He's alive. I repeat this mantra to myself as I push the last gawker aside and see Blair lying in the street.

Ow. Ow. What the hell happened? One second I'm telling Jason about how Simon and I tricked Jim into going to the Cop of the Year ceremony and the next I hear Jim screaming at me to get back, just before this car comes crashing out of nowhere. God, my arm hurts.

I can hear Jim calling my name, he sounds frantic and scared, and I want to assure him that I'm all right, but I can't seem to make my mouth work. Maybe if I just open my eyes first. Yeah, that'll help. Okay, here goes. One. Two. Three. Why is it still dark?

"Blair? Come on, babe, open your eyes." Babe? Did Jim just call me babe?

I finally peel my eyes open, squinting into the bright glare until a dark shape blocks the sun. "Jim?" I try to sit up, but strong hands grip my shoulders, holding me down.

"Don't move. Don't . . . just lay still, okay?"

I close my eyes and nod. "Yeah, I . . . What happened? Where's Jason?"

"You were hit by a car." I can feel Jim's hands skimming over me, running lightly across the back of my neck, cupping my head gently, feeling for injuries. "Where does it hurt?"

"My arm, my back." Taking a deep breath, I look up at Jim again, blinking until his face resolves itself into something other than a shapeless blob. He looks terrified and I have a surge of guilt for something I'm fairly sure wasn't my fault. "Jim, you okay, man?"

"Besides having a couple decades scared off my life?" His hands are trembling as he reaches up to touch my face. "I'm all right if you are."

"I'm fine, Jim. I just got the wind knocked out of me and . . ." I try to sit up again, but Jim's having none of that and the renewed pain in my back at the effort convinces me that maybe he's right. "What happened?"

"You were hit by a car, babe, you need to lie still."

There, I heard it again. I can't be imagining it, right? "Did you just call me babe?"

"Yeah, yeah, I guess I did." He's still stroking my face, carding his fingers through my hair. Feels nice. "Is that okay?"

"Don't know." I shrug, or at least I think I do, my eyes are growing so heavy now I'm having trouble keeping them open. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, babe. "'S'kay." I manage that much before the effort to remain conscious becomes too much and I drift off, hearing Jim's voice in my ear.

"Damn it, Simon, there's no way this was an accident. Whoever it was, they were aiming straight for Sandburg." The first thing I hear when I come to, in a place that could only be a hospital by the smells of it and the dull white walls, is Jim's voice, low and angry. "And you can't tell me it was a coincidence that the car was yellow."

"Jim, calm down, you know I'm behind you on this." Ah, Simon's here, also. "And I agree with you, at this point a safe house would be the best plan, I just don't think the chief will go for the expense and I'm sure Sandburg won't go for being locked up with only a few days left of his class."

"He'll go for it." Oh yeah?

"You don't know that, Jim." You tell him Simon. "Sandburg doesn't have the good sense God gave a lemming when it comes to his own self-preservation. If he did, he would've been rid of us long ago." Hey! I resemble that remark.

"This time he will. He will if I have to handcuff him to the bed and sit on him." While I have to admit that idea has some merit, completely apart from any personal safety issues, I think it's about time I join this conversation. Before I find myself under armed guard in Alaska.

"'im?" Okay, that could've come out a little better, but it seems to have accomplished its goal because now Jim's right next to me, trying to hold my hand and pour a glass of water at the same time. "'appened?"

"What happened?" Jim's finally settled on letting go of my hand in favor of helping me lift my head and get a small drink of water. "Why don't you tell me what you remember?"

"Lunch." The water helped, now at least I'm understandable. "Jason and I went over to Tony's for lunch. We were on the way back when I heard you calling me." It starts to get fuzzy here. "Then, um, something went flying by and I think Jason pulled me back. Where is he?"

"Yeah, that's about it. You were hit by a car. Thank God Spencer was there, he pulled you back when I shouted, otherwise . . ." Jim looks lost for a moment and I can see what the effort to keep it together costs him. I wish I could hold him, let him feel that I'm here and all right, but Simon's still in the room and this relationship is way too new for me to even begin to know how I feel about letting anyone else in on it.

"Simon?" I look away, giving Jim a second to compose himself. "Do you know what happened to Jason?"

"He's fine, broke his ankle, but otherwise fine." Simon's looking uncomfortably between us, like he knows there's something more going on here, but doesn't want to ask. "Listen, Jim, I'm going to get down to the ER and check on Spencer. I'll let you know if the check on that license plate turns up anything."

"Thanks, Simon." Jim laces his fingers through mine as the door closes. "You scared the shit out of me, you know."

"Sorry."

"Just don't let it happen again." He bends to press his forehead against mine.

"Scout's honor," I swear and arch up into his kiss. His lips are as sweet and warm as I remembered.

"Promise me."

"Jim." I protest the removal of his lips from mine.

"Blair, promise me."

"I promise." Right now, I'd promise anything if it'll just get him to lower his mouth another half inch. There. Perfect.

Blair's upstairs sleeping and I'm fighting the urge to go up and check on him just one more time. Today scared the shit out of me and I'm still riding high on adrenaline, even hours later. Right now keeping Blair in sight seems to be the only thing that keeps me from jumping out of my skin.

I'm halfway back up the stairs when I hear the elevator open on our floor and my nose tells me it's Simon. I'm momentarily torn between checking on Blair and not wanting the door to wake him. Getting the door wins out, but mostly because I assure myself I can still check on him just as soon as I let Simon in.

"Hey, Simon." I open the door just as he raises his hand.

"Just once," he starts and then shakes his head. "Never mind. How's the kid?"

"Sleeping. The doctor gave him something for the pain that pretty much knocked him out." I motion Simon toward the couch, trying not to be too obvious about looking upstairs.

"I'm surprised the doctor released him so soon." Something in my expression must have clued Simon in, because he's shaking his head and muttering `or not' under his breath. "Overrode the doctor, huh?"

"Assured him he could sleep just as well at home," I reply, dropping onto the couch. "So the doctor doped him up and sent him home."

"How's the arm?"

"Shoulder's dislocated. The ER doctor popped it back in. He's going to have to wear a sling for a couple weeks, but he should be fine." This time, I add silently.

"And that hard head of his?" Simon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigar.

"Mild concussion, but not enough to worry the doctor. Along with the strained muscles in his back, he's going to be uncomfortable for a few days, but nothing serious." I turn slightly, trying to hone in on Blair's breathing. "Not this time."

"Go ahead."

"What?"

"Go check on the kid." Simon motions toward Blair's room. "You've been squirming since I got here."

With a quick glance at Simon and another at the room under the stairs, I do just that, trying not to hear Simon's intake of breath as I start up the stairs instead of under.

Blair looks pretty much the same as I left him: Lying on his right side, a pillow wedged under his back, sleeping soundly. His left arm is strapped to his chest and dark bruises pepper his back and side, but he's alive and home and that's all that matters right now.

"Jim?" Simon's standing at the bottom waiting, so I indulge in one last look and make my way back down.

"Sorry, I just needed to," I wave vaguely back toward the stairs. "So, what brings you out here anyway? It wasn't just to check on Sandburg, was it?"

"Actually, yeah, it was," he admits uncomfortably. "The rest of this I could've told you over the phone. Our boy got sloppy this time. Forensics pulled a clean set of prints off the steering wheel."

"Are they sure they belong to our guy?" It can't be this easy. "Did they run `em against the DMV's records?"

"They're doing that now." Simon smiles broadly. "Connor and Burke talked to the car's owner, some woman that works at the university. She's got a solid alibi for the time of the hit-and-run and her prints don't match the ones forensics pulled off the wheel."

"Wait, they don't match any of them?" As much as I hate looking a gift-horse in the mouth, something about this sounds off.

"According to Connor, she's an older woman, wears gloves when she drives."

"Who is she?"

"Vera something." Simon pulls a notebook out of his pocket and flips through it for a minute. "Vera Alfred. She works in the office over at Hargrove Hall."

"I think I should head over there and talk to her."

"Jim, relax, Connor and Burke have it covered. I'll get back to you if Forensics comes up with anything." He glances up toward the top of the stairs. "In the meantime, you take care of the kid and get some rest. You, my friend, look like shit."

I snort my thanks as I show Simon out the door. Forty-five seconds later, though, I'm taking his advice and crawling into bed next to Blair. Even if I can't hold him right now, I can be near him. It's a whole hell of a lot more than I had just a few days ago.

"Ow. Ow, ow, ow. Ouch."

"Damn it, Sandburg, sit still and let me do this." Jim's starting to sound impatient and I guess I don't blame him, but it's hard to sit still when someone's ripping your arm off. Or at least when it feels like they are.

"Sorry, sorry. Go ahead." I bite my lower lip, promising myself I'll stay still no matter how much it hurts.

"You don't have to do this, you know." Jim finally finishes pulling a shirt over my battered arm and just looks at me. "I'm sure the university can find someone to take over your class for today."

"Jim, man, it's the last day of class before the final. I can't just wuss out on my students like that." Not that the thought didn't cross my mind the first time I tried to move this morning. "Besides even if they could come up with someone on this short of notice, I couldn't trust that they would go over everything the students need to study for the final." Jim's noticeably silent as he starts buttoning my shirt.

"Hey, it's only for a couple hours," I remind him, stilling his hand with mine. "Then I'm yours for the rest of the day. Whatever you want."

"I want you to be safe," he says, brushing a kiss across my forehead. "Think you can manage that?"

"I'll do my best." I sigh, leaning against him for just a moment. "Guess I better get going before Fearless Fred decides to break in the door."

"Hey, be nice." Jim tugs on my ponytail. "Fredericks is only pulling this duty as a favor to me."

"I know, I know," I admit. "But couldn't you have found someone a little less intimidating?"

"No," Jim answers frankly, drawing away from me to stand. "The whole point is to let whoever this is know that you're being protected."

"You don't really think that's going to scare them off, do you?" I ask, grasping the hand Jim holds out to help lever me up off the bed.

"No, but hopefully it'll keep them away long enough for us to get a match on the fingerprints we pulled out of the stolen car." I bite back another wince as Jim fits my arm, carefully, back into the sling and tightens it against my body. Man, this sucks.

"If you get a match on them, if you can find the guy once you have a match, if . . ." Wow. You know, I could really get used to Jim using kisses to win his side of an argument.

"Hey, I'm supposed to be the cynic in this relationship," he informs me with one last, brief, kiss. "We're going to find him, Blair. You have to believe that. We both do," he whispers.

"This is all wrong."

I turn my attention away from the latest forensics report and over to where Special Agent Burke stands, hands on hips, glaring at the board in front of her. "What are you talking about?"

"The hit-and-run attempt," she replies without looking back. "It completely breaks the pattern."

"Attempt?"

"Sorry," she waves apologetically in Jim's direction. "I just don't get this. Except for the timetable, our copycat's tried to keep everything as close to David Lash's crimes as possible. Why this sudden change?"

"Desperation?" I suggest. "We've had Sandburg under protection since the first killing."

"No, I don't think so. Even if the copycat knew about the protection, this wasn't just a break in the manner of death, but a break in the chain of victims." She takes another step closer to the board, staring hard at the scattered pictures. "It's almost like there was someone else behind this."

"You think it was just an accident?" Jim asks, looking deflated.

"No, I don't," Burke admits, turning around. "The color of the car, the fact it was stolen and aimed right at Blair . . . No, I think it's too big of a coincidence for it to not be related. That's why it's got me thrown. Why? Why such a drastic break in the pattern? Serial killers are notoriously loyal to their rituals." She drops into a chair, sighing. "I'm sorry, Captain, it's just frustrating. We have so many theories on why these killers behave the way they do and what we think their next move is going to be, but in the end they're just theories."

"We're all frustrated," I remind her. "Jim, any word from Welles?"

"The prints didn't turn up anything yet, but they're running them through the Washington state DMV and the FBI databases. Hopefully they'll have something in the morning."

"Okay, let me know if they turn up anything," I dismiss Burke and Connor, stopping Ellison with a wave of my hand. "How's the kid this morning?"

"Sore. Moving slow. But determined to teach his class today." Jim sounds a little proud as he shakes his head.

"Is Fredericks with him?"

"Yeah." Jim's grin is practically feral. "Sandburg wasn't too happy with my choice of bodyguards, something about thinking his students would be intimidated."

"No, really? By Fredericks?" I snort softly, picturing the 6'4", 300-pound detective glaring down a room of college students. "I can't imagine where Sandburg got an idea like that. Is he planning on coming in today?"

"He's planning on it." Jim frowns. "He said he was going to swing by the library and pick up a book they've been holding for him and then head straight in here."

"You don't sound like you approve."

"I don't. He should be home in bed." Jim blushes suddenly and clears his throat. "That is . . ."

"Please, Detective, I understand." I stop him in mid-sentence. "Why don't you take him home once he gets in? I'll have Connor call you if forensics turns up anything."

"Thanks, Simon. I just might take you up on that."

I can tell Blair's in pain and trying to be stoic about it, even before I see him. It's in the sound of his breathing: the slow, evenly measured breaths through his nose, not too deep, and the painful little hitch when he does breathe too deep. It's in the way he's moving, or rather not moving, in the elevator as it rises. The normal tapping of his feet or hands to his own internal rhythm is absent.

Not waiting for the elevator to arrive, I grab my stuff and hurry to meet it as the doors open.

"Hey, Jim." My suspicions are confirmed as soon as I see him, the tight lines of pain around his pale face. I suppress the urge to just pull him into my arms and hold him for a minute, knowing I can do all the holding I want once I get him home. "What's going on?"

"We're out of here," I reply, gently maneuvering him back into the elevator.

"You get a lead?" he asks hopefully.

"Nothing yet," I admit, punching G and settling back against the wall. "Forensics still hasn't come up with a match on the fingerprints. Welles is running them through the DMV and N.C.I.C. now."

"Then where are we going?"

"Home. Simon gave me the afternoon off." I try to keep my voice casual, but he's obviously not buying it.

"What? Jim, we can't afford to take any time off of this," he protests. "Susan Fraiser is still missing and . . ."

"And you just got hit by a car. Yesterday," I remind him pointedly, steering him out of the elevator and towards the truck. "You're in pain and you need to rest. Connor and Burke can call me if Forensics comes up with anything."

"Jim, I'm fine. Okay, not fine." Duh. "But I can rest tonight. Susan Fraiser doesn't have the luxury of waiting around until I feel better."

"Chief . . . Blair," I pull him into a loose embrace, not caring that we're standing in the middle of the police parking garage, "it's not your fault."

"I know that." He looks up at me sadly, at a loss for words, and shrugs. "I just feel like there should be something we can do."

"As much as I wish there was, sometimes the only thing we can do is sit and wait for something to turn up." I wrap an arm around his shoulder and lead him to the truck. "In the meantime, the more you let yourself heal, the better shape you'll be in when we do turn something up."

He's smiles a little sadly and nods. "Yeah, maybe you're right. But there's no reason you should have to tag along and baby-sit."

"Sandburg, quit being an asshole," I pop him lightly on the side of the head and open the truck door, "and get in the truck."

"Jim, I'm not . . ."

"Yeah, you are." I close the door, cutting off his reply and circle around to climb into the truck myself. "Listen," I turn and look at him, making sure I have all of his attention, "I know you're worried, but the fingerprints are our best bet right now and hanging around the station bugging Welles about them isn't going to speed up the process. Trust me on that one, I already got an earful from her on it." I grin lightly, hoping it'll pull him out of his funk. "Besides, I'm wiped out, Chief. I didn't get a whole lot of sleep last night." I close my eyes and try to block out the sound of metal hitting flesh. "I think I need this as much, maybe more, as you do."

"Yeah, okay, Jim." He reaches across the seat and squeezes my hand before smiling broadly at me. "Home, James."

I hate it when Jim's right.

Especially when he knows it. Two and a half hours of teaching and I'm totally wiped. My entire left side is throbbing and I'm not sure I could keep my eyes open with a whole forest of toothpicks. And Jim's not even giving me the satisfaction of being a smug asshole about it. Instead he's throwing these worried little glances in my direction during the entire ride home.

Once we get there, I barely have time to get my seatbelt off before he's circled the truck and opened my door. Tired as I am, I can't say I exactly needed his arm around me to get out and up the elevator, but it felt nice and I wasn't about to say anything that might make him remove it.

"Here." Jim hands me a glass of milk fifteen seconds after I walk in the door.

"Milk? Jim, man, I hate to tell you, but this is as much growing as I'm going to do," I assure him.

"Smart-ass. Your pain pills say to take with food or milk." He hands me a pill and watches expectantly.

I don't bother trying to protest, mostly because this is one of those times I hate. So, instead I take the pain pill like a good little Blair and let Jim hustle me up the stairs and into bed. Even nicer than stretching out on a flat surface and the lethargic pull of the pain pill, is the fact that Jim climbs in behind me, carefully scooting up next to me and managing to wrap his arms around the only parts of me that aren't sore. His breath on the back of my neck is the last thing I feel as I drift off to sleep.

When I finally wake up, a couple of hours have gone by and I can hear Jim moving around downstairs.

"Hey," he calls up from the bottom of the stairs, "you feel like coming down and having something to eat?"

"Yeah, I could eat," I answer, sitting up slowly. Everything still aches, but the constant throbbing has died down and my appetite has returned. Actually, despite everything that's been going on, my appetite's been a lot healthier the last week or so. There's nothing like finding out the person you care most about in the world, not only doesn't hate you, but is actually in love with you, to make everything seem better.

"Any requests?" Jim's still waiting at the bottom of the stairs as I come down, trying not to look too anxious.

"Nah, whatever is fine with me." I sit on the couch and look around for my backpack. "Have you seen my . . ." Jim drops it on the floor next to me, along with a quick kiss, before I can finish asking.

"Just take it easy, okay?" he warns on his way back into the kitchen. "Don't hurt yourself pulling out any fifty- pound books."

"Twenty pounds, tops," I promise with a grin, waiting for the scowl I knew that would earn me. "Kidding. I just want to check out that book I picked up at the library. Ellen's been holding it for me since Monday."

"What is it?" Jim asks over the clatter of pans.

"A comparative study on the rites of passage among the tribes of Southern Africa." I begin, maybe a little too enthusiastically because Jim's eyes start to glaze over. "I'm making a list of cultures that include isolation as part of their rituals in hopes of . . ."

"Finding more information on Sentinels?" he finishes for me with a smile.

"Yeah, that." I watch him for a minute more, admiring the smooth grace with which he moves around the kitchen and then turn back to the book in my hand and start unwrapping it.

What the hell? Blair's pulse just skyrocketed out of control and he's just sitting, like a statue, staring at that book he was so excited about. Leaving the soup I was heating up, I hurry into the living room just in time to catch the book as it tumbles from his fingers. It's yellow. That alone is enough to send my pulse racing after his, but when I turn it over and see the cover . . .

Yellow Silk. That's the title. It's scrawled across the cover, over and under a picture of two nude women, with a blood red slash under the O. The photo's supposed to be erotic, but they're lying there, so still they look dead.

"Blair?" I can feel the faint tremors working through him as I cup a hand around his shoulder. We both know what this book means. Every time he's gotten a gift or message from this psycho, another body's turned up. The meaning of the book seems pretty clear, somewhere in Cascade, Susan Fraiser is lying dead in a bathtub. We've come full circle.

"Blair?" I give his shoulder a little squeeze and wait while he looks up at me. "Are you going to be okay while I call Simon?"

"Yeah." He closes his eyes and nods. "Jim, man, I got the call about the book Monday morning. That means . . ."

"Yeah, I know." I dial Simon's number, keeping an eye on Blair the whole time. "Simon, Sandburg got another package. No, it looks like it was dropped off at the library for him sometime Monday. Yeah, we both know. No, I'll call Connor and Burke. Uh huh." I hang up and place nearly identical calls to Megan and Burke.

"Is anyone going to check with Debbie Carter?" Blair asks when I hang up.

"Simon's calling the patrol car on duty outside her apartment." I sit next to him and just hold him for a minute, trying to absorb his shock. "Why don't we eat? Simon will call us back if there's anything to report."

By the time Simon calls back, Blair's in bed again, getting some much-needed rest.

"Jim." He sounds tired and defeated. "The 911 operators received a 609 call for 3328 Anthol street, apartment B about twenty minutes before you called."

"Anthol?" I search my memory for a moment. "That's where Blair and I took the first call."

"The black and white that took the call found a woman's body in the bathtub." Jesus Christ. "From the description, it looks like it's the girl from the college."

"Fuck," I swear softly. "Have you contacted the roommate yet?"

"Connor talked to her. She's going to call the girl's parents and come in to make a preliminary identification in the morning." He turns away from the phone for a moment, calling an officer over, and I can hear the sounds of the forensics techs in the background. "Jim, I'm going to send an officer over to stay with Sandburg. I want you to get down here as soon as he gets there."

"Okay." I rub my forehead, trying to push back the headache that sprung up from nowhere. "Who are you sending?"

"Hernandez. He's a good man."

"Yeah, he is." I nod, more for my own edification than Simon's obviously. "I'll be ready when he gets . . ."

"I'm coming with you."

Damn it. Blair's up. And he obviously knows something's going down.

"Chief . . ."

"Don't even start, okay, Jim?" he warns, limping down the last few stairs. "They found Susan's body, right?" He doesn't bother waiting for a confirmation before plowing on. "Which means, you're going to need to use your senses to check out the scene. You told me you had trouble controlling them at the last scene."

"Jim?" Simon calls impatiently.

"Besides," Blair slides up next to me and wraps his good arm around my waist. "I'd feel safer if I was with you."

I have no argument against that, mostly because selfish as it is, I'd feel better knowing he was where I could keep an eye on him. "Simon, go ahead and cancel Hernandez. Sandburg's coming with me. Well, he seems to think so. Yeah, about twenty-five, thirty minutes." I hang up and look at Blair, silently asking him if he's sure. He assures me, just as silently, that he is.

My stomach tightens as Jim and I walk past the officer at the door and into Susan Fraiser's old apartment. I can still remember the feeling that first night we came here. Pumped up from the Jag's twenty-point victory, jazzed by the cheering crowd, a little buzzed on adrenaline, the feeling of anticipation as we rushed to the rescue. Walking into this apartment, knowing that something felt wrong about the whole thing, but not being able to articulate it, with no sound but the drip-drip-dripping of water. Sometimes the sound of dripping water still makes my breath catch in my throat.

Then, there was the dead body in the bathtub. It was the first dead body I'd ever really seen. With Danny Choi, there'd been too much going on, bullets flying, Jim falling apart, there just wasn't time to really think about it at the time or to feel anything other than grateful Jim and I were all right. But with Susan Fraiser it was different. In that split-second I stood in the doorway staring at her body, I had all the time in the world to absorb the horror, the tragedy and senseless waste of it. A waste brought home even more in the days that followed as we learned just why she died.

"Chief?" Jim's looking at me, concerned, and I try to give him a reassuring smile, but it comes off as more of a grimace.

"I'm okay." I motion toward the bathroom. "Let's just get this over with."

Jim nods, straightens his shoulders, and starts for the bathroom. I'm half a step behind him, ready to help him when he steps in. Big mistake. Because one look at the body in the tub, so shockingly similar to the last time, and my stomach's ready to empty it's contents.

"Shit." I turn away and out of the bathroom, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. Damn it. I can't believe I lost it like that. I've seen plenty of dead bodies since I started working with Jim, more than enough.

"Chief?" Jim follows me out, looking almost as alarmed as I feel. "Are you all right?"

It's funny how his concern almost sends me over the edge quicker than the body did. Who would've thought when we stood here three years ago how far we'd go and how much we'd have to go through to get where we are.

"Yeah." I swallow hard and don't even bother trying to smile. "It just really threw me for a sec. I don't know why, but I didn't expect it all to be just the same."

"I know." I can feel a shudder move through Jim's hand on my shoulder. "All the other scenes we only saw crime scene photos of, so the copycats didn't feel so . . ."

"Intimate?" I ask, around him into the bathroom again. "Come on, let's get this over before I need some serious PDAs."

"You got it, Chief." He taps me lightly on the side of the head, giving me a fond smile, and goes back into the bathroom.

"Okay, Jim, start with sight," I coach him. "You were at the original scene, so compare this to the one in your memory and see if you can come up with any differences." We spend several minutes going slowly over the room, coming up with a couple of hairs and a fiber sample forensics missed, but not much else.

"What about smell?"

Jim eyes me a bit suspiciously for a moment, like he almost suspects me of setting this all up as an elaborate sensory test, but complies anyway.

"Waste."

"What?" I'm sure that made sense to Jim. I hope that made sense to Jim.

"In the water. I can smell duck waste in the bath water." Jim leans out the door, grabbing a passing tech by the arm. "Did you get samples of the bath water?"

"Yes." The new guy, I think his name is Warwick, frowns at Jim's hand on his arm and starts to pull away.

"Take another one and get over to Welles in the lab right away," Jim orders. "Tell her to compare it with the samples from Alfred's Pond and the ones taken from the other victims. And send the meat wagon in."

"Jim!" I protest. He knows I hate that. I know that cops have to find a way to distance themselves from all the pain and suffering they see, but I really wish they, especially Jim, could do it in a way that didn't dehumanize the victim.

"Sorry, Blair," he replies contritely. "Reflex. Let's find Simon and wrap this up."

I nod quickly, more than anxious to be out of here and back home, preferably in bed with Jim's arms wrapped around me.

"Jim, you're here. Good." Burke slides a chair up to my desk and sits before I have time to take off my jacket and sit in my own chair. She looks like she hasn't been home yet, and I'm pretty sure that shirt is the same one she was wearing when she got to the crime scene last night. As much as I've distrusted her, still do to a certain extent, I have to admit to a twinge of guilt knowing she was here all night working on my case.

"What have you got?" I offer her the cup of coffee I brought in with me. She looks like she needs it more than I do.

"Thank you." She takes a long drink. "This is a God-send. The stuff in the break room turned solid around four am." She stops long enough to take another drink before plunging on. "I talked to Welles about two hours ago. She got the analysis on the bath water back. You were right; the water in it matches the samples taken from Alfred's Pond and the other victims. Which makes it pretty likely that they were all drowned in that apartment."

"Did anyone get a hold of the rental agency?"

"Megan tracked down the manager around one am. They had a fire two nights ago in their office and all of the rental records were destroyed."

"Anymore good news?" I grouse, regretting giving up my coffee.

"Nothing that won't wait," she admits with a sigh. "Thanks for the coffee."

"You all know the drill. Tests face down until the big hand's on the twelve and the little hand's on the eight." I wait a second to give all my students a chance to finish groaning. "You have two and a half hours to finish the test. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me, but not each other. Okay," I watch as the second creeps its way around to twelve, "begin."

"Ellison! We've got a match!"

"What?" I stare in shock at Welles as she rushes into the bullpen waving a folder.

"We got a match on the thumbprint from the car that hit Sandburg." Welles proclaims proudly, slapping the folder on the desk in front of me.

"Yes!" Burke pumps her fist in victory and hurries over as I open the file.

"Norman A. Perkins. Date of birth: 11/13/79." I flip the page over and stare at the faxed copy of his driver's license picture. "Jesus. I know this kid. He's in Sandburg's class."

"What? Are you sure?"

I don't bother to answers Burke's question as I grab my gun and rush out of the bullpen, praying I'm not too late.

"Time's up."

The few remaining students groan as they drop their pencils and start gathering their test sheets together. A few mutter goodbyes as they leave their tests on my desk and file out of the room, until there's just good old Fearless Fred and me left.

"Do you need some help with those, Mr. Sandburg?" Fredericks offers as I pile up the tests and try to get a one-handed grip on them.

"Yes, please." I happily accept his offer, not wanting a repeat of this morning's pathetic attempt. "And I told you, call me Blair."

"Yes, Mr. Sandburg." I swear I can see a hint of a smile playing around his lips as he answers me.

"Just let me grab my backpack and we can head back to my office for a fun-filled day of grading." I just manage to get the strap over my shoulder without embarrassing myself and start for the door after Fredericks.

"Professor Sandburg, you're still here!" Norm comes rushing into the room as we near the top of the stairs, out of breath and looking worried. "I really need to talk to you about something." He glances nervously at Fredericks. "Please?"

"Yeah, sure, have a sit." I glance imploringly at Fredericks. "Do you mind waiting in the hall for a sec? I promise we won't leave the room. Scout's honor."

Fredericks looks a little dubious, but finally agrees and starts for the door as I sit in the desk next to Norm. "What's the problem, Norm?"

"I don't even know where to begin," Norm tells me despondently and looks me in the eye. "But I should probably start by telling you how sorry I am. About all of this."

"Can't this car go any faster?" I snap as Connor takes the last turn onto the university drive. "I should've taken my truck."

"I prefer to get there in one piece, thank you." Megan barks back, taking the next turn on two tires. "I've seen how you drive in a crisis, mate."

"What's that supposed to mean, Connor? At least I drive on the right side of the road." I ignore the exasperated sigh coming from Burke in the backseat.

"You drive on both sides of the road." Megan counters, screeching to halt in front of Hargrove Hall, effectively winning the argument because I'm no longer paying attention to anything but getting to Blair.

"Norm, what are you talking about?" I don't understand why he's so upset. He seemed fine when he left here. In fact, he was one of the first students finished, and from the look I took at his test while I was waiting for the other students to finish, he did some good work on it. "What do you need to apologize for?"

"All of this. Everything that happened." He states miserably. "I should've tried harder to stop it. If I'd just done something sooner, maybe nobody would've had to die."

Die? "Norm, what the hell are you . . ."

"FREEZE!"

The classroom door bursts open and Jim comes rushing in, gun drawn, and nearly scares the crap out of me.

"Jim, what are you . . ."

"Move Sandburg. NOW!"

All I can do is stare at Jim in shock as Megan, Rachel and Fredericks come through the door right after him, guns held out in front of them.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," Norm starts chanting behind me, curling forward in his seat.

"Damn it, Sandburg!" The next thing I know, Jim's manhandling me out of my seat and away from Norm as Megan starts to handcuff him and read him his rights. "I told you to move."

"Jim, what's going on here?"

"DMV came back with a match on the thumbprint we pulled from the hit and run vehicle." Jim's shooting ice daggers over my shoulder at Norm as Megan finishes reading him his rights.

"And . . . you mean . . .?" I can barely finish the thought, let alone the sentence, as I follow Jim's gaze over to where Norm stands sobbing. "Jim, man, there has to be some kind of mistake."

"There's no mistake, Chief." Jim's eyes soften for just a moment as he looks at me.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt. You have to believe me," Norm's sobbing as they drag him out of the room.

"Come on, Chief, I'll ride back with you and Fredericks." Jim's hand is warm on the back of my neck and he caresses it briefly before nudging me toward the stairs.

"What? Yeah." I'm still in shock as I start out with him, trying to wrap my brain around the idea that Norm was behind all this. It doesn't seem right. "Wait. My backpack."

"Hold on." Jim brushes his hand down my back, ghosting it reassuringly over me, and goes back to retrieve the backpack for me. He shakes his head when I reach for it. "I've got it."

"J-Jim." I clear my throat and start over. "Jim, I'm going to stay here. I need to start getting the tests graded and . . . I'd just as soon not watch you book Norm."

"Are you sure, Chief?" He looks worried, and I can't really blame him after everything that's gone down.

"Yeah, I think I need a little time alone to absorb it all, ya know?"

"Yeah, I know, Chief." He tilts his head to the side for a moment, listening, and then bends down to brush a soft kiss across my lips. "I'll walk you back to your office and then catch a ride back with Connor and Burke."

"Thanks."

"But I'm leaving Fredericks with you." He remarks, with a smirk, as he bolts up the rest of the stairs

"Jim!"

"Ellison!"

The door slams open as first one of my detectives, then another, comes storming out of the interrogation room.

"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?" Connor's spitting mad and I can't blame her.

"Interrogating a suspect!" Jim growls at her, leaning in and trying to intimidate her with his size. A move that obviously only makes her madder. "Or trying to before you started interfering."

"Interrogating? More like blowing the bloody case." Connor snarls right back, poking Ellison in the chest. "Any first year rookie knows better than that."

"Damn it, Connor, we know he did it!" Ellison's scowling now and it's having about as little effect as his earlier attempt.

"Probably," she agrees, eyes narrowing angrily. "But what good will that do us if you get the case thrown out of court because he was denied access to his bloody attorney?"

"She's right, Jim." I decide to step in before things get any uglier between them. "The kid asked for his attorney. There's nothing else we can do until he gets here."

"I don't like this, Simon." Jim turns away from us both and leans against the window, glaring in at the scared looking young kid inside. "So far the only thing we can pin on him is the hit-and-run and I'm not letting him get away with it."

"How about letting me talk to him?" Burke's been watching so quietly that I'd almost forgotten she was here.

"And what do you think you can get?"

"Maybe nothing, but what will it hurt to try a different approach?" A small smile touches her lips as looks from Connor to Ellison. "Besides, haven't you ever heard it's supposed to be good cop/bad cop, not bad cop/badder cop?"

"Hello, Norman." He looks up nervously as I walk into the room and stop at the table. "Do you mind if I join you?"

"I want to talk to my lawyer." His eyes drop to the tabletop as I pull out a chair and sit next to him

"He's on his way," I assure him, watching as he shifts anxiously in chair, still refusing to look up at me. "I just thought that maybe we could talk for a little while before he gets here."

"I don't have anything to say." He finally raises his eyes, but only to look nervously over my shoulder at the door, obviously worried about Ellison coming back.

"Then why don't you let me do all the talking?" I suggest, leaning forward.

"What?" He looks startled when he realizes I'm still in the room with him.

"I asked if it was all right if I did the talking. Is it?"

"Yeah, I guess, I don't know . . ." he drifts off, once again glancing at the door. "What was his problem anyway?"

"Detective Ellison?"

He nods, looking for a moment like nothing more than a miserable nineteen year old kid, instead of the cold-blooded killer we suspect him of being. "I didn't do anything to him."

"No, but you did do something to Blair Sandburg and he's a very good friend of Detective Ellison's.

"I didn't mean to!" he blurts out abruptly. "It was an accident. I only meant to scare him. I thought if I scared him he would . . ." He shuts up suddenly, his jaw snapping shut audibly, and seems to shrink into himself.

"You thought what?" I reach across the table and draw one of his hands toward me. "Norman, what did you think would happen if you scared Mr. Sandburg?"

"I thought he'd stop coming to school," he whispers, "and then maybe she wouldn't hurt him."

"She? She who, Norman?" I squeeze his hand and try to get him to look at me. "Norman, who are you afraid will hurt Mr. Sandburg? Norman, please, tell me."

"I can't," he moans, pulling even further into himself. "She'd never forgive me. Never."

"Who, Norman? Who would never forgive you?"

"My mother."

Norman? I still can't believe it. It just doesn't seem possible that that shy kid could be the copycat. A shudder runs through me when I think about all the time I spent alone with him here in the office.

Okay, enough's enough, Sandburg. I mentally chastise myself. Jim's got him in custody and you've got finals to correct.

I set aside the essay questions for the short, multiple-choice section, figuring it takes less concentration to check for A, C, C, B, E, D than to try puzzling out undergrad reasoning. I manage to get through all of the multiple-choice and get myself together enough to start on the essay questions before there's a knock on the door.

"Yes?" I call out, hoping it's not some student already trying to find out what their final score is.

"Blair, dear?"

"Vera?" I pull the door open, a little surprised to see that Fredericks isn't waiting outside. "Can I help you?

"Oh no, I just stopped by to see how you are, dear." She smiles endearingly at me and I have another twinge of guilt about all those times I tried to avoid her in the halls. "I just heard about the police arresting that young man from your class and I came to see if there was anything I could do for you."

"Thanks, Vera, that's really, um, sweet of you, but there's nothing. Thanks anyway," I start to close the door and step back into my office.

"Are you sure, dear? I brought you some tea." She holds out a thermos. "It's special blend. A recipe my mother passed down to me."

"I . . . guess it wouldn't hurt me to take a break. Come on in." I step back and let her into the office, glancing down the hall again in both directions, looking for Fredericks. "Vera, did you see where the officer that was outside my door went?"

"Yes. He was just stepping into the, ah, gentleman's room when I came down the hall," she confides with a hint of a blush.

"Oh, okay. Here, let me get that for you." I reach to pull out a chair for her.

"Now, Blair, dear, don't you worry about me," Vera fusses. "You're the one who's hurt. Just you sit down now and I'll take care of everything."

I sink into my chair with a grateful smile, giving into the sore muscles I'd been trying to ignore. "Thanks, Vera."

"Norman should be ashamed of himself for hurting you like that," she tsks softly as she pulls out two mugs from the shelf next to my small coffee pot. "But then that boy never could do as he was told. Here, dear, try this." She hands me a mug of tea. "It's guaranteed to cure what ails you."

"My mother."

What the hell? I start for the interrogation room, but Simon's hand on my arm stops me.

"Hold on, Jim. Let's see what Burke can get out of him."

"Damn it, Simon, I'm not going to let him get away with setting up an insanity plea." I pull away and start for the door again. There's no way I'm letting this little punk get away with this.

"Ellison. Sit. Stay." Connor plants herself between me and the door, pointing at the nearest chair, and I have to stifle the urge to plant her in it instead. I'm about to take up the point with her when Burke starts talking again.

"Your mother? Norman, why would your mother want to hurt Blair?" she asks quietly, concern radiating from her.

"She says she has to punish Davey for coming back," he replies, so low I almost have to dial up my hearing to catch it.

"Punish Davey? Do you mean David Lash?"

The kid nods, looking more miserable by the second and a flash of something uncomfortable uncurls in my stomach.

"Why would your mother want to punish David Lash?" Burke asks sympathetically.

"She says he's a bad boy, unclean. She said we're all unclean." He drops his head onto the table, covering it with his arms and rocking back and forth. "Except Jimmy. She made sure he went to heaven before he could become dirty and evil."

"Jimmy?" Burke pales and glances back at the mirror before returning her attention to Perkins. "Norman, are you talking about Jimmy Lash? Norman, are you?"

"Yes," he whispers, so quietly that this time I do have to dial up to catch it.

"Norman, how does your mother know about Jimmy Lash?" Burke grabs his arm and shakes it when he doesn't answer right away. "Norman, is your mother Jimmy's mother?"

"yes."

Fuck.

"Norman, look at me." Burke commands, her voice and manner changing as she stands over Perkins. "Norman, look at me."

He raises his head slowly and we can all see the tear running down his face. "Yes, ma'am."

"What's your mother's name, Norman?"

He seems to be mesmerized as he stares at Burke and swallows hard before answering. "Vera. Vera Alfred."

"Are you all right, dear?"

"Huh? What?" I look up at Vera, my head suddenly heavy, as the room blurs around me. "Yeah, I just . . . just . . ." I close my eyes, hoping it will stop the sudden spinning in my head. "It's just been a long day. I think I just need to go home and . . ." I try to stand and stumble into the desk.

What the hell's wrong with me? I was fine just a couple minutes ago and now . . .

"Davey, dear, maybe you had better let me help you." I feel Vera's arm go around my waist.

Wait a minute, what did she just call me? "What did you . . . what did you call me?" I open my eyes and try to focus on her. "Vera, what did . . ."

"Come along, Davey."

"I'm not . . ." I try to pull away from her, but there's no strength left in my limbs. "Vera, what are you . . ." God, my head feels like it's going to explode. "Where's Fredericks?" I force my eyes open again and look around wildly, trying to find him, or anyone, as Vera leads me out into the hall.

"I told you, David, he's in the gentlemen's room." There's a hard note to her voice this time, that scares the shit out of me and I can only hope he's not dead. "You were always a disobedient boy. Wicked and naughty. Now quit fighting me and come along. It's time for your bath, David."

"Pick up the phone. Pick up the phone. Pick up the God damned phone!" Half the bullpen turns to stare at me when I yell into the phone. "Damn it, Simon, there's no answer."

"Maybe he's on his way to the station?" Simon doesn't look like he believes this anymore than I do.

"Fredericks would've called in to let us know about the change in location if they were." Fuck this. I slam down the phone and grab my gun. I swear to God, once I get my hands on Sandburg, I'm not letting him out of my sight again. Especially on that damn campus.

"Jim," Connor calls as she hangs up her own phone. "The rental agency called while we were in interrogation. Susan Fraiser's apartment was leased to a Vera Alfred."

"Ellison, where are you going?" Simon barks out, following me to the elevator. "You're not even sure if she's got him or where they are if she does."

"Damn it, Simon, I know something's wrong. I can feel it." I stab angrily at the elevator call button, glaring at the slow moving numbers on the display before turning toward the stairs. "I can't just sit around here and do nothing."

"And you can't go dashing off half-cocked not knowing where you're going." He grabs my arms, trying to stop me. "Damn it, Ellison, they could just be in the bathroom."

"Fine, then they'll be back by the time I get there." I pull away and start down the stairs at top speed.

"Brown, get on the phone to Sandburg's office at Rainier. Keep trying until you get him or I call you. Rafe, call the admin office in Hargrove Hall, have them send someone over to Sandburg's office now to find out what's going on. Connor, Burke, call the officers stationed around the apartment and Alfred's pond, have them tighten the security there." Seconds later I can hear Simon pounding down the stairs after me.

They're all dirty. All these wicked, evil boys. With their dirty thoughts and their dirty ways. Always looking at women and thinking of the dirty things they want to do.

Only my Jimmy was good. My sweet little Jimmy. Because I saved him before he could become dirty like Davey and Daddy. Before he could have those thoughts. I sent him to heaven while he was still a good, clean boy.

And now I'll clean Davey and send him back to hell where he belongs, back with all the other dirty boys.

Jim? God, my head hurts to so bad. Where am I? I need Jim. I need . . . I hiss at the bright sunlight. It seems to burn its way into my skull, making the pain even worse.

Where's Jim? I need him. I need him to . . . Why is it so bright?

Someone tugs on my arm. Jim? I try to look, but it hurts too much. All the bright, bright light everywhere.

"Don't worry, Davey, mother will take care of everything."

Naomi? Who's Davey?

Something hard hits my leg and then I'm falling. I think I'm falling. I reach out, trying to stop and there's a splash as pain radiates through my arm.

Jim, help.

NO!

Even before Simon comes to a stop I can see her, standing over Blair in the fountain, holding his head under water. I'm out of the car before it stops, but then my feet don't seem to work. There's this voice in my head and it's screaming, screaming for me to move, to save him, to do something, ANYTHING, but I can only stare in horror and wonder distantly if this is what it looked like when Alex drowned him.

Then Simon is running, brushing past me with his gun drawn and the force holding me back snaps, propelling me toward the fountain. The next few seconds are a blur. I can vaguely hear Simon telling her to freeze and get the hell away from Blair. She's laughing now, something about it being too late and Davey finally being clean as Simon slaps the handcuffs on her and hauls her out of the fountain.

But none of that seems real to me, the only thing that's real is Blair, face down in the water, and he's not moving. A distant corner of my mind wonders how I can still be moving and breathing if he's not. He's so cold as I pull him into my arms and in the distance I can hear someone crying, begging him to wake up, but I don't know whose voice it is. All I know is that everything I love is lying still in my arms and if I've lost him again, I'm lost forever.

"Jim! Damn it, Jim, snap out of it!"

A hard slap across my face brings me back to reality, or as close as I'm likely to get until Blair opens his eyes. I realize then that I'm still kneeling in the fountain, cradling Blair in my arms, and that the voice I hear, still begging him to come back, is mine.

Struggling to my feet, I refuse to let Simon help me as I carry Blair out and lay him gently on the grass. And then everything fades but the need to breathe for Blair, panic replaced with hypnotic rhythm of the struggle to save a life. His life.

Simon presses onto his chest and counts as I draw a deep breath.

One, two, three, four, five.

Breathe.

One, two, three, four, five.

Breathe.

It's not working, the CPR, he's not breathing and there are no paramedics to be seen, no Incacha whispering the secrets of life, no spirit guides leading him back to me. There's only Simon and I, trying so desperately to bring him back and it's not working.

One, two, three, four, five.

Breathe.

Oh God, Blair, please. Please don't do this to me. Please don't leave me. I press my lips to his, pushing another lungful of air into his unresisting mouth, remembering how they pressed back last night, how his tongue tangled with mine and the taste of tea and honey mingling with the taste of Blair. I want that kiss again, that kiss and a thousand more.

One, two, three, four, five.

Breathe.

God, I can't do this without him anymore. Can't do anything. Please, please, please, just give him back to me and I swear I'll never take him for granted again. I'll never turn my back on him again.

One, two, three, four, five.

Breathe.

A pained gasp tears its way out of Blair's throat and it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. "Blair? Can you hear me?"

He gasps again, taking a deep panicked breath and opening his eyes. "Jim?"

"Right here. I'm right here," I assure him holding on tightly. "I've gotcha, babe."

What the hell is taking these damn doctors so long? And how can Ellison be so calm? He was a nervous fucking wreck during that entire frantic race from the station back to the university and again as we followed the ambulance to the hospital. But for the last ten minutes he's been sitting calmly outside Sandburg's treatment room, like he doesn't have a care in the world.

"Ellison, what the hell is wrong with you?" I can't help snapping at him.

"Nothing, sir." Now there's a stupid smile on his face, that irritates me more than the calm expression did.

"Why the hell are you smiling?"

"Sandburg, sir. I can hear him talking to the doctors. He's trying to convince them he's fine and they should just send him home." As he recites this information, I can see his hand creep over to his handcuffs.

"You planning on doing something with those?" I ask.

"No, sir." He smiles in a manner that I can only assume is an attempt to look innocent. "The doctor seems to have everything under control. Sir."

"Uh huh."

A minute later a harried looking doctor steps out of the treatment room and stops in front of us. "Detective Ellison?"

"That would be me." Jim steps forward.

"Which would make you Captain Banks, I presume?" the doctor continues. "I'm Dr. Tomkins, I've been treating Mr. Sandburg."

"How is he?" I ask, hoping he'll be a little more forthcoming with information than Ellison.

"Very lucky. There's no water in his lungs."

"But he wasn't breathing when we pulled him out of the fountain." I point out.

"Yes, I'm aware of that. But the loss of respiration appears to have been caused by the combination of the Percocet Mr. Sandburg was taking for the dislocated shoulder he suffered in an incident earlier this week and the Trichloroethanol he was given."

"Can I see him now?" Jim appears to have ignored everything the doctor's had to say, but I realize that he probably heard it all as it was going on.

"We're going to have him moved to a private room in a few minutes, you can see him then."

"Why are you keeping him?" I ask, since Jim doesn't seem to be inclined to.

"He still has high levels of the Trichloroethanol in his system, as well as the Percocet. We'd like to keep an eye on him and make sure there isn't a repeat of this afternoon's incident." A nurse steps into the hallway then and motions for the doctor. "You'll have to excuse me. I have other patients to see to. I'll make sure someone informs you when Mr. Sandburg is settled."

"Detective Ellison?" A much too perky red head comes into the corridor looking for me. "You can see Mr. Sandburg now."

I follow her down the hallway to his room. Not that I needed help finding him, I could hear his heartbeat the second I stepped off the elevator. But I wasn't sure I was ready to see him then. Our last hospital scene is still too fresh in my mind and I'm still amazed at what an ass I was.

I push the door open and step inside. He looks pale, lying there half-asleep, in the weak sunlight filtering through the blinds, and I'm afraid to make any noise and disturb him.

God, it always comes back to drowning. Practically from the day I met him, Lash, jumping into that river, Barnes, and now this. If this was a more primitive time or I was more superstitious, I'd wonder if he hadn't angered some vengeful water God. As it is, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to let him take so much as a shower by himself again, let alone a bath.

"Hey, Jim." He smiles at me through heavy-lidded eyes.

"Hi, Chief." I reach out and take his hand in mine, relieved to find it warm and to feel life pulsing through it. "You better not be doing this to meet nurses." His laugh quickly turns into a groan as he holds his ribs. "Because I think you should know, I'm the jealous type."

"Oh man, don't make me laugh," he gasps, tugging on my hand until I sit on the edge of his bed. "How are you?"

"Terrified." I admit. "Relieved. Grateful."

"All that, huh?" He tugs again, raising his head off the pillow and slipping his other hand around my neck, pulling me down until our lips meet.

This kiss is sweet and slow, a mingling of lips and tongues and breath as we both seek reassurance in the other. The temptation to get lost in him is strong, but I can feel sleep stealing up on him, so I break the kiss and settle for nuzzling my way down his throat as he sighs contentedly against me.

"How about you? How're you doing?" I tighten my hold on him, just a little more, and breathe his scent deep into my lungs.

"Tired. Confused." His eyelids are starting to drift down and his head is heavy on my shoulder. "I'm not really sure what happened after you arrested Norm."

"That's the drugs. The doctor says it'll all wear off once the drugs are out of your system." I settle him back down on the pillows and watch him struggle to stay awake. "Get some sleep. We'll talk about it when you wake up."

"You'll be here?" he asks through a yawn.

"You betcha." I promise, brushing my hand over his cheek.

He closes his eyes with a happy sigh and snuggles deeper into the pillows, slowly relaxing back into them. Just about the time I think he's finally asleep, though, he jerks up. "Vera."

"What?"

"I remember something about Vera." He looks at me, confused. "She thought I was Lash?"

"Yeah, something like that. Don't worry, I'll explain it all later. I promise."

"But . . ."

"Sandburg, sleep!" And he does.

"Wake up, Chief, you've got visitors."

I suppress the urge to smack Jim with a pillow and sit up slowly, looking over the back of the couch. Megan and Rachel are both standing in the loft doorway, watching me expectantly. "Oh, hey, come on in." I start to get up, but don't get far before Jim clamps a hand down on my shoulder and gently persuades me to stay put.

"Thanks. We can't stay, l just wanted to stop by on my way to the airport and see how you're doing." Rachel sits down on the love seat and I can see the smile she's trying not to set free at the protective way Jim's hovering behind me.

"A lot better, thanks. Especially now that Jim's filled in most of the blank spots."

"Good." Megan ignores the dirty look Jim throws her way and plops down on the sofa next to me. "Because Jimbo's a bloody pain without you around."

I can't help snorting loudly, more at the indigent look on Jim's face than Megan's actual statement. "Jim said you had a couple more things you wanted to track down before you left town."

"Norm cleared up most of our questions, once his mother was in custody," Rachel sighs. "It's not a very pretty picture I'm afraid. His childhood doesn't sound much better than his brother's was. Or his mother's for that matter."

"His mother's?"

"From what we've found out, Vera was abused by her father from a fairly young age. He was a dentist and he used to use chloral hydrate on her and her sister to subdue them before he molested them." She glances over my shoulder at Jim before continuing. "Apparently her mother did nothing to stop it; told her that all men were dirty and it was their burden as women to bear. When she was sixteen, her father was found drowned in Alfred's Pond. The verdict at the time was that he had taken an accidental overdose of chloral hydrate and fell in."

"And now?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"According to what she told Norman, she lured her father there, drugged him, but made sure that he was aware enough to know what was going on when she drowned him." Rachel shakes her head, looking as troubled as I feel by all this. "After that, even though she got married and had sons of her own, she still looked at all men as something evil and dirty."

"Her ex-husband said she went out a lot when Lash was a kid," Jim sits on the back of the couch, wrapping a hand around my shoulder and squeezing reassuringly. "If she hated men so much, why . . ."

"I can't give you an exact answer on that. Not unless she decides to start speaking to the doctors. But I can give you some educated guesses. Confusion, after all, women of her day were supposed to want to get married and have children. They were raised to believe that this was where their fulfillment lay. But her husband's touch disgusted her, she saw her first child as being tainted with the same evil that her husband and father carried."

"Then Jimmy comes along and she sees him as being her salvation, a child untouched by the evil of men," I supply. "Only he dies . . ."

"Or is murdered by her, to protect him from becoming as sinful as the others, and her marriage falls apart, leaving her with a child she hates." Rachel continues. "Leaving her to believe her mother was right, that being used by men was simply a woman's burden to bear in life."

"What about Norm? Where does he come in?"

"Norm's father was a defrocked priest that she got involved with, apparently after meeting him, she got deeply involved in the religious aspect of her delusions. He died, drowned actually, when Norman was five. After that it as just him and his mother and I'm sure you can imagine what that was like." She glances at her watch. "I better get going, I'm going to miss my plane back to Atlanta."

"Thanks, Rachel." I stand up and give her a cautious hug, before Jim can protest, and follow her to the door. "Take care."

"You, too, Blair," she kisses my cheek and smiles at Jim, once again hovering behind me. "It was a pleasure to work with you, Detective."

I can hear Jim snort softly as he closes the door behind them and wraps an arm around my waist. "You should be resting."

"Jim, man, I'm rested out." I crane my head back and look up at the frown he's aiming in my direction. "I don't think it's possible for me to be more rested. Not and continue to breathe."

"Not funny." The arm around my waist squeezes a little tighter.

"Sorry, it's just, really, you don't need to baby me, Jim. I'm fine, I promise you."

"What if I like babying you? Just a little?" he asks, skating soft lips down my cheek to latch on to my ear lobe.

"Well, gee, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?" I let him lead me back to the couch, snuggling closely next to him. "Now, where were we?"

"Right about here," Jim whispers, his mouth hovering over mine.

"Yeah, just where I want to be," I breathe between us. "Forever."

"Forever."

Footnote: The book that Blair received really does exist. Its title is Yellow Silk: Erotic Arts and Letters. And it's edited by Lily Pond and Richard Russo. You can find it at Amazon if you want to take a look at the cover.

Oh, and if you read the whole story, looking for the "Light My Fire" spoiler and didn't find it, that's because there isn't actually on. I'm just slightly twisted that.

End Tie A Yellow Ribbon by Gayle: Gayeld@aol.com

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Disclaimer: The Sentinel is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount.