The Good Friend - Part three
By Jack Reuben Darcy

Jim waited until it was dark before he called Simon. Waited until he was fairly sure Blair wasn't going to make any kind of appearance. So he sat on the floor between the coffee table and the couch, dialled the number and kept his gaze on the television news, the flashing pictures helping him to keep focussed.

"Jim? Why haven't you called? I've left messages all day. Where have you been?"

"Here. I just didn't want to talk."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on? Has Blair turned up?"

"I've heard from him so I suppose he's okay."

"And that's it?"

"No. Look, I'd like a leave of absence."

There was a long silence during which he could hear Simon get up and close his office door. "What's this about, Jim?"

"Nothing I can really talk about at the moment, Captain. I just need some time off. I want to go away for a while, sort some things out."

"Anything I can help with?"

"No. I've just ... made a lot of mistakes and ... assumptions and I just..." What? Need to eradicate them from my life? Plunge into them and explore wholeheartedly? Need to learn to live as a sentinel without a guide? "I need the time off, Simon."

"How long?"

"I don't know. Maybe a couple of months. Maybe longer."

How long did it take to learn to be alone? Again. What kind of process did a sentinel go through when the only thing he was allowed to care for was a generalised mass city tribe - with no specific individuals involved?

But taking care of Blair, of needing to - had brought him to this place of destruction. There had to be a way forward. Only this time, he had to find it himself. Alone.

"Okay, Jim." Simon's voice came to him, low, a little sad and resigned. "I'll stop by tomorrow with the paperwork. Try to get some rest, okay?"

"Thanks."

The clock in the hall downstairs kept Blair awake. Every fifteen minutes, when his body was ready to sink into sleep, three bells would chime and startle him awake again. And Patrick - Patrick would move around in his study, making the wooden floors of this ancient house creak and groan. Little, tiny sounds, all of them unique and different from the sounds he was used to - the loft and yes, even Nick's place.

At least he'd answered one question: he'd never loved Nick. If he had, that pain of losing him wouldn't have been so easily swept away by the events of last night. And the horrible, bitter truth was - Jim was far more important to him than Nick would ever have been. Betrayal or no, he was better out of that relationship than in.

Didn't make it feel any better, though. Didn't make him feel like himself, like the Blair he'd always known and loved. He didn't even know where that person was any more. It was as though his own soul had been abruptly displaced, cast adrift and he was left with this dry, angry, loveless thing he couldn't possibly care for.

Had he seen those things in Nick? The bits he couldn't trust? Or had he blinded himself? Just as he'd been blinded to trusting himself to not touch Jim.

Why the fuck couldn't he see? Why was this darkness in his head as well?

He rolled over, punching the pillows again, trying to settle in one position that would let him sleep, one place that would give him release.

Hard to think that just a few weeks ago, he'd been happy. Going out with Nick, looking forward to their relationship growing stronger, working alongside Jim, enjoying that friendship like no other. Now he'd lost both of them.

Or had he really lost Jim before that? When had they started to drift apart? Would it have been some time around when he'd come out to Jim? Jim thought Nick was his first - but they'd never really talked about it so the rest of his past had never emerged into conversation. He could hardly say he'd been casually dating guys since high school. That kind of thing was impossible to slip in between dinner and a game on TV.

So was that it? Had Jim maybe withdrawn from him a little, perhaps feeling somewhat threatened?

If so, then that made the kiss nonsensical.

No - the whole thing made no sense. From beginning to end. From that first moment right up until last night when he'd ... when he'd just grabbed at Jim and had been grabbed back.

He'd been on fire. His thoughts diluted with pure sensation. He'd needed that touch like no other in his entire life - and he'd taken it, unmindful of the consequences, his promises, his vows to himself.

Was Patrick right? Had it just been biology?

So ... why did his skin crawl every time he thought about it? Why did he feel a flush of shame strike his face? Why did he want to go back to that moment and stop it?

But he couldn't. Such miracles were beyond his ability. Much better that he start to gather his data together and consider finishing his dissertation without any further additions. Better that he move out of the loft and leave that life with Jim behind. Jim didn't need him any more. It was time. Better that he accept that and move on, that he rebuild his life around fewer promises and less trust.

Trouble was, he'd got used to being needed. Had learned to like it - to need it in return.

To need the friendship.

But Patrick was right. He couldn't trust anyone. Most of all, he couldn't trust himself.

Jim rose early, showered, had breakfast - and then spent the next four hours cleaning the loft. He paid particular attention to the floor by the kitchen island. He'd lived with their scents for a whole day, willing the constant reminder to deliver whatever retribution it could. But now it was time to get rid of it. The memory would live on, long after the physical evidence had vanished.

When he was done, he pulled a beer out of the fridge, took a long mouthful and opened all the windows to let the warm spring air in, to wash the place clean in a way he knew Naomi would appreciate. Then, when he was done, he turned into Blair's room and began to open the cartons, one by one.

With hands careful of what he held, he placed books back on the shelves, masks back on the walls, clothes back in drawers and closet. Each he placed with deliberate memory, scoring back over time to where he had seen it last, before the madness had set in. As each box was emptied, he flattened it out and stacked it under the stairs. He would take them down to the basement when he could afford to leave the loft - and not before.

He was waiting.

And he would wait as long as it took. Blair had to come back sometime. Had to come back and collect his things so he could move into his new place. So Jim would stay in the loft until that moment - if it took hours or days. He no longer cared. There were things he needed to say, things he had to put right, mistakes he had to beg forgiveness for - and he would do it if it killed him.

In the end, he wasn't the friend he wanted to be. Not according to the rules. Instead, he could only be the friend he was, the friend who owed too much to this man to treat him so badly.

Most likely, Blair would just pack his stuff up again and leave, regardless of anything Jim could say. But he wanted, no needed, to make Blair believe he had changed, that things had changed and that, above all else, Blair could trust him, just like he always had.

They both needed to know. Even if it really was all over.

When he was done, when it was all unpacked, Jim set about putting food together for a meal. It was still early, but if Blair was going to come, he would do it now, when he could safely assume Jim would be at work.

The stew was on the stove when he heard footsteps approach the door. Slowly.

He must have seen the truck parked downstairs.

Jim moved. He made for the door and pulled it open. Blair stood there, key in hand, making a point of not looking at him.

"Come in." Stepping back, Jim made room and waited. Blair straightened up, stepped inside and closed the door, holding out the key for Jim to take.

"Just in case I forget later."

Jim took it. It was easier than starting off with an argument. He returned to his stove, stirring the pot for a moment, giving himself a second to gather his words, his thoughts, whatever he needed.

"We need to talk."

Blair had come around the island and placed his hands on it. Only then did he look up.

Something sharp and terrible struck through Jim then. He blinked, took two steps around the island and folded the man in his arms. He wasted no breath on words - just held the small, tense body against him. He'd not planned this - but he couldn't bring himself to let go until he was sure Blair understood.

And slowly, he seemed to. Slowly his arms came up until they were holding Jim. It was a hug of mutual comfort, of mutual distress and neither felt safe letting go.

"I was worried," Jim said eventually.

"Yeah," Blair replied. "Me too."

"You're okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Fine."

"Good."

"Yeah."

And it was time to let go. Jim felt the wrench and stifled an involuntary gasp. Stepping back, he gestured to Blair's room - but no words came to him. There was just the gesture and his own helplessness to stop what he now knew would happen.

Blair wandered slowly to the door and looked inside. He was silent a moment. Then he shook his head, "I can't, Jim. I'm sorry."

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Do we have to fight again?"

"Are we going to agree on anything?"

"Have your say, Jim. Go ahead, I won't stop you."

Jim stayed where he was. It was safer that way. "A part of me wants you to go."

"Which part?" Blair turned and faced him.

"The friend - what's left of him."

The hurt on Blair's face was unmistakable. "I see. And what about the rest of you?"

"We should try and fix this. Make it better. Go back to being the friends we were before."

"Which is stronger?"

Jim could only shrug. He didn't know - and that was the problem. "You need a life of your own, Chief. One that doesn't have you following around after me. I can't give you what you need."

Blair blinked and took a single step forward. "And that's it?"

"That's... really the gist of what I wanted to say, yeah."

"There's nothing... more?"

Without even asking, Jim knew what that question was. It reeked of something he could never reveal now, requiring an intimacy he was incapable of giving. He'd known that before all this started, known he could never do this, never give anyone what was required to make any relationship work. The question sat in the air between them, a battle line drawn, waiting for the first combatant to step over it.

Jim declined the honour. "We've gone past that - and you know it. It's too late."

Blair shook his head, "Do you know you've never once asked me what I was going to do when I finished my dissertation? Things like where I would go, what I would do next."

"Why would I need to? I know you'll leave. You have to. That's what anthropologists do."

"Jim, you don't know anything about me." Blair came forward another step, his voice hard and uncompromising. "You never asked. Not once. Never asked if I minded if you kissed me. Never asked if you could. Never asked if I was interested. Never asked what I wanted from my life. You think you know me but I've just become a piece of furniture in your life and now I don't fit any more, do I?"

"Are you telling me you want to stay? Is that it?"

"Damn it, Jim," Blair snapped, "This isn't about me staying or leaving! This is about us - you and me. About us being friends, people who are supposed to care for each other, to look out for each other. For god's sake, Jim, you accused me of being willing to tell everyone about your abilities! I thought ... I thought you'd ... know I could never do something like that. I thought you knew me - but you don't. Or did you just say that to hurt me - 'cause if you did, then I don't really know you, do I?"

Jim stood and stared at the man, met that blue gaze with his own, idly noting the checked shirt, the jeans, the hair, hands and feet - all things he'd had in his life for so long, things he was used to, things he'd wanted...

Things he loved.

"I guess," he murmured after a moment, "that we were both wrong, weren't we?"

Why? Why couldn't he make this right? Why weren't there words to bring it back home? Because it was wrong? Because it was time, that it really was over?

Too much over before it had really begun...

It had never happened. None of it.

"Yeah," Blair breathed, "I guess we were." Blair tore his gaze away, glancing around the loft.

"Under the stairs."

Blair nodded and collected an arm full of boxes. He disappeared into his room and Jim pressed his forehead against the wall. There had to be something he could do ...

To achieve what?

To make him stay?

To make him... what?

Love?

Was that what he wanted? Was that what Blair wanted?

But did he really feel this or was it just this pain inside beating against him. It was too difficult to tell, to make sure and there was no way he could say until he was sure - and by then, it would be too late.

It was already too late.

A knock at the door made him move. Probably Simon with his leave forms. He strode across, pulling the door open to find the tall man standing there, usual grim features, cigar in hand.

"Jim."

"Come in, Simon."

"How's things?"

"Okay, I guess."

Simon stood in the centre of the living room, glancing about. "Is Sandburg here?"

"Yeah. He's ... packing."

"Packing?"

"That's right."

Not looking at him, Simon nodded towards the closed doors. "I need to talk to him. Can you ask him to come out?"

"Sure." Shaking his head, Jim opened Blair's door. "Chief? Simon wants to see you."

Blair looked up, frowned and nodded. He followed Jim out into the living room. "What's up?"

Simon pursed his lips together, gazed steadily at Blair for a moment before glancing at Jim. "Is this the reason, Jim?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Can we talk about it later?"

"We might not get a chance later."

"Well, I really don't want to talk about it now."

"Talk about what?" Blair raised his hands. "Guys, I'm standing right here."

"It doesn't matter," Jim began but Simon wouldn't let him continue.

"Actually, it does matter. A great deal." He paused again and said, "Sandburg, do you know a man by the name of Nicholas Lansdowne?"

Jim's gaze darted to Blair, catching the brief flash of alarm, the quick intake of breath. "Yes. Why?"

Simon frowned, glanced down at his feet then back up at Blair. "I'm sorry, but his body was found this morning."

For a moment, Blair froze completely. Then he blinked once, "How ... what..."

"He was murdered. In his home. His work colleagues were concerned when he didn't show up this morning. Apparently he's been missing for some days. We sent a uniform car around and they found his body in the hall."

"Oh ... god ..." Blair swallowed then suddenly looked green. He began to waver on his feet and reached out to Jim for support.

Instantly, Jim was there, an arm around his waist, steering him to the couch. "It's okay, Chief, just sit."

"Oh, god... But he... he..." Blair swallowed again, blinking rapidly, trying to absorb this and failing. "Murdered? Do we know who?"

"We don't have any suspects in custody, no."

Blair had already forgotten the last question. "How ... I don't understand this ... I mean... " He was breathing too rapidly, was starting to hyperventilate.

"Take it easy, Chief. One breath at a time. That's it." He held Blair's hand in his own, his fingers almost crushed by the grip.

"Sandburg," Simon said quietly, "I have to ask you to come down to the station."

"What?" Jim would have sprung to his feet if Blair hadn't been holding onto him so hard. "Is he a suspect?"

"Not at this time, no. But his fingerprints have been found inside Mr Lansdowne's house. You know the procedure. Once we get autopsy results, we'll have a cause of death and hopefully, a murder weapon. Come on, Jim, you know I have to do this."

"But, Simon, you don't understand... Blair has just... I mean..."

"It's okay, Jim," Blair was turning his face around to look at him, forcing his attention to focus. Blair gathered himself quickly and harshly. His skin was white, his eyes huge and there was such a vein of fear running through him, Jim thought he would be sick. "Please, Jim, it's okay. I'll go."

"You're not under arrest, Chief, is he, Simon?"

"No. I thought it was best this way."

"You mean he could be arrested? You don't even have a cause of death yet. God, Simon, you know he didn't do this!"

"Jim," Blair urged again, tugging on his hand. "Please, don't do this, okay?"

And Jim had to meet that gaze because it beckoned him, it belonged to him and he loved it, loved this man with all his heart. Always had. It had just taken too long to work it out. And now he couldn't ever say it out loud, couldn't ever find the words to make it right, couldn't take them from this place to the one where they could be together.

Because although Blair loved him, he would only ever be a friend.

For the moment however, for this moment, that was all that mattered. "Okay, Chief. I'll go with you."

"No." Blair gripped his hands hard, a silent warning that he say nothing else. Then he turned to Simon. "Captain? Would you trust me enough to give me one minute alone with Jim? He can tell you afterwards what I say. Would you trust us both that much? Please?"

Simon stuck his cigar in his mouth, "Christ, what a thing to ask me! Okay, damnit! But you have exactly one minute - and I'll be waiting outside. If you try anything..."

But he was friend enough to leave that threat unspoken. Instead, he went out the door and closed it behind him.

"He's waiting on the other side of the door, Chief."

"I know." Blair let go and got to his feet. "Come with me, quickly."

He dashed into his bedroom and Jim followed. He stopped before his desk, rummaging through the shelf above until he found what he was looking for. He gestured at a row of notebooks, "Jim, the moment I'm out of here, you have to collect together all my notes about you and burn them. Everything, do you understand? My laptop is in my backpack - there, by the bed. Open all the files marked dissertation and delete everything in them. All of them. Delete the entire directory. In fact, it might just be easier if you wipe the hard drive. Yeah, that's the best idea. None of the notes in my office have your name in them. There's just these journals and the dissertation - and I don't have any printed copies at the moment. I normally shred them the moment I'm finished with them. Can you do that, Jim? Please?"

"Chief," Jim caught one wildly moving hand and forced Blair to look at him. "I can't destroy all your work like that!"

"You have to! Come on, Jim, you're a cop! My fingerprints are all over Nick's place ... I... " He swallowed, getting over that part with sheer determination. "If they find any evidence to suggest I had anything to do with it, they'll get a search warrant and the first thing they'll find is all this stuff about you. Now I know you can do this because none of this has anything to do with Nick. There's no evidence of anything here except your heightened senses. I don't even mind if you tell Simon you destroyed my notes afterwards, just do it, please, Jim! Promise me!"

Jim could hardly move, speak or even breathe. He could only look - and nod. The relief on Blair's face only cut into him more.

"Sandburg?"

"Coming, Simon!" Blair stayed a moment longer, gave Jim a small smile and said, "Promise, me, Jim. Please."

It hurt, but he had no choice but to agree, "Promise. I'll come down to the station as soon as I'm finished."

"Sandburg!"

"Gotta go." Blair fled, grabbing his jacket and disappearing out the door before Jim could say or do anything more.

Simon had had a lot of practice over the years, trying not to look at people. As a cop, it made sense to be able to observe without being obvious, to keep the eyes away when they could be noticed, to keep the gaze down so as not to issue an unspoken challenge. All good skills, all necessary. Not one single one of them worked on the drive to the station.

Sandburg sat beside him - and if body-language had much to say, then the young man was an essay in fifty words or less. Afraid, worried, nervous, holding onto control with desperation, alone.

He had his elbow on the door, his chin in his hand, pretending, like Simon wouldn't know otherwise, that he was relaxed about this, that he had a pure clean conscience.

Why did he think Simon would doubt him?

Was there reason to doubt?

A man was innocent until proven guilty. That's what the law said - but if the police force ever actually employed that principal, they would only ever arrest people during the commission of a crime. The truth was, a man was innocent until evidence cast a mote of suspicion - then he was guilty until another suspect proved more viable.

Cops charged and found innocent of crimes were always under a shadow for the rest of their lives. It was pretty much the same for everyone else.

So was that what Blair was worried about?

Or was there something else?

"Sandburg?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

The young man grunted, "Would you be?"

And Simon left it at that. After all, what could he say?

Jim did his best not to speed. With things as they were, the last thing he needed was a reprimand on his record. But it was hard. Very hard in fact.

Hard to ignore the feeling in the pit of his stomach. Simon hadn't told them everything. If he'd just wanted to ask Blair a few questions, he could have done so at the loft. So Blair had to be a suspect.

Time slowed down on the journey. He'd known it would. Time always slowed like this, when he didn't want it to. As though the world was having its own zone.

But he did eventually get there. He did eventually pull into the parking garage, made it to the lift, rose through the building and emerge into Major Crimes. Again, he tried not to speed as he made his way to Simon's office, paying no attention to the looks thrown at him as he passed.

He didn't knock - though Simon didn't seem surprised.

"What's happening?"

"Sit down, Jim."

"What has my sitting down got to do with it?"

Simon sighed, got up, closed his door and with a firm hand, pushed Jim into a seat. He then perched on the edge of his desk and laced his hands together. "The investigation has been taken out of my hands."

"By who?"

"IA. Although Sandburg isn't a cop, they have decided that he works too closely with Major Crimes for us to treat the situation with sufficient objectivity."

"That's crap, Simon..."

"No, it's not. For once, I agree with them."

"Why?"

Simon took in a deep breath. "If Sandburg is innocent, I'd rather he was cleared by IA than us. There'll be no questions lingering afterwards."

Jim stared at the man he thought he'd known. He got slowly to his feet. "I want in on this."

"No."

"Simon..." Jim began, not bothering to keep the warning growl out of his voice.

"No, Ellison." Simon's voice was equally sharp. "You can't be a part of the investigation - you might be called as a witness."

"A witness? A witness to what? Sandburg didn't do anything!"

"Do you know that, Jim?" Simon stood and faced him. "Can you account for every minute of Blair's time? Are you going to tell me you think he's completely incapable of killing someone? Do you really know him that well?"

Jim shut his mouth. He turned away and faced the window, pushing his hands into his pockets before he did violence with them.

"... Jim, you don't know anything about me..."

Simon wasn't saying why - but he saw seeds of doubt. Saw something that made him wonder whether Blair might indeed be guilty.

But ...

Could he...

Kill Nick?

Blair Sandburg was probably the toughest person Jim had ever met, had re-defined the entire concept. He was tough in ways other men didn't get the chance to be. He'd taken on a whole new world when he'd begun to work with Jim, finding himself in situations constantly threatening to his own life and had never once, not in that whole time, had he ever once backed down. He'd never lost it, never crumpled, never faded. He'd just kept coming back and back and back. He was tough to the core - and Jim was sure, that if ever the moment came and Blair had to kill, he would do it.

But murder? In cold blood?

No.

Even though he'd now had the time to consider it as a whole, he still came up with the same answer he'd known instinctively at the loft. Blair was not the innocent his eyes seemed to suggest some days - but he was no murderer.

"Who's in charge?"

"Detective John Warner. He's a good man. One of the best - for IA. He won't tear Sandburg to shreds."

"Unless he has to." Jim turned and squared Simon off. "I want to watch the interrogation."

Simon didn't look happy, "I don't know, Jim..."

"Has my name been mentioned as a witness yet?"

"No..."

"Then I'm going."

Simon didn't try to stop him. Instead, he followed Jim through the building until they reached Interview Room 2. Without a word, they stepped into the observation booth and Jim was glad it was dark because he didn't want Simon to see him, to see whatever expression was on his face. There were things Simon didn't deserve to know.

Jim recognized Warner as he came into the room. He also recognized the uniform standing in the corner.

Blair was already seated, picking at the cuff of his black and white checked shirt. He'd once said it was his favourite.

Warner took a seat, placing the file on the table before him. Jim had met the man before a few times and Simon was right - if IA had to be involved, Warner was certainly the best of an otherwise bad bunch. That didn't mean this was going to be easy.

"You name is?" Warner began.

"Blair Sandburg."

"Address?"

"852 Prospect."

"You're a TA at Rainier?"

"That's right."

"And a consultant to the Cascade PD, with Major Crimes?"

"Yes."

"What are you studying?"

"Does it matter?"

Warner looked up, smiled slightly and shook his head, "No, not really."

"Anthropology."

"Oh. I did a semester of that, myself."

"Great," Blair replied with an edge of sarcasm. "Does that mean we're going to become best buddies?"

Jim's stomach clenched at the tension in Blair's voice - but he said nothing.

Warner simply raised his eyebrows and glanced back down at the file. He paused a moment then said, "How would you describe your relationship to the deceased, Nicholas Lansdowne?"

There was only the briefest pause before Blair answered, his hand completely still, his head up, his gaze steady on Warner. "We were not on speaking terms at the time of his death."

"And before that?"

"We ... "

Jim held his breath as Blair's gaze flickered to the glass window, the one he couldn't see through - and yet, Jim knew Blair was looking for him.

"Mr Sandburg?" Warner prompted quietly.

Blair sighed, "We were lovers. But we'd broken up."

Jim closed his eyes for a second - long enough to hear the gasp of surprise from Simon. He didn't even bother addressing it.

Warner, on the other hand, didn't seem surprised at all. "How long had you had this relationship with the deceased?"

"We'd been together about three months before we broke up."

"And what was the cause of your relationship ending?"

"Nick just decided it was over. He never really told me why."

"You asked him?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"The day after he dumped me."

"Which was?"

"Um... I guess ... Friday was the 11th - so it would have been Saturday the 12th. That's the last time I saw him."

"And how would you describe that meeting?"

Blair shrugged, appearing very tired. "Tense. I went over to collect some things I'd left there. I asked him why he'd dumped me - he refused to say."

"And then you left?"

"Not quite. I mean, I did leave a few minutes later - but not before his new lover walked in. I think he'd been listening from the bedroom. Then Nick admitted they'd been seeing each other for a few weeks - and that's when I left."

"You drove home?"

"Yeah."

"Did you have any further contact with the deceased after that?"

Blair frowned a moment, then shook his head. "No."

"What time did you leave Mr Lansdowne's house?"

"I don't really know. I certainly didn't look at my watch. But I wasn't there for more than ten minutes. I think it was about nine when I got home."

"Can anyone verify that? Did you see anyone on the way? Was your room-mate home when you got there? Did you make any calls?"

"No. Nobody saw me. Not until dawn. Jim had been at work and that's when he came home."

"But you definitely didn't speak to him before that?"

"No."

Warner nodded and pulled a clear plastic bag out of his pocket. Jim could easily see the piece of brown pottery it contained. "Do you recognize this?"

"Sure," Blair frowned again, his voice dropping, giving away too much for Jim's liking. "It's ... it looks like a lamp I gave Nick, a few days before we broke up."

"Is there any reason why your fingerprints would still be on it?"

"I ..." And Jim could hear the sudden increase in heart beat, could almost smell the fear coming through the glass before him. "Nick wanted me to take it. He handed it to me - but I gave it back. I didn't want it."

"What did he do with it?"

"I ... I think he put it back down on the table by the wall."

"So it was in one piece the last time you saw it?"

"Yes, definitely."

"And you left how long after that?"

"I don't know," Blair snapped, "I wasn't keeping a stopwatch on myself!"

Warner's voice was calm, "A guess?"

"Maybe two, three minutes."

With another nod, Warner glanced down at the file. Without looking up, he read, "The victim sustained blows to the face and torso. Cause of death was severe brain damage due to a blow to the head from a heavy object, pottery, possibly of African origin. Pieces of this lamp were found at the scene with the deceased's blood, hair and tissue all over them." Warner looked up again. "Along with your fingerprints, Mr Sandburg."

Blair's mouth was shut tight, but his nostrils flared with the effort of trying to breathe. Jim put a hand on the glass separating them, helpless, needing to help but knowing he couldn't.

"I told you," Blair said through clenched teeth, his knuckles white, "I held the lamp for a minute while I was there - but that was weeks ago."

Warner didn't blink at all. "The autopsy confirms time of death to be on or around the last date you saw the deceased, Mr Sandburg."

"But ... but..."

"Did you murder Nicholas Lansdowne?"

"No."

Warner put the file aside, brought his hands together and leaned forward. "How about this? Nick dumped you. You went around to see him, to get your stuff - but he doesn't really want to talk to you. He just wants you to go because he can't be bothered - after all, he's got this new lover, hasn't he? Or is the new lover a figment of your imagination? We found no other fingerprints in the house but yours and the deceased's. So maybe Nick doesn't have a new lover - but he still doesn't want to see you any more. He doesn't want your gifts, either. So when he gives you the lamp back, you hit him with it. It's pretty heavy and it doesn't break immediately. So you hit him again and again until he's on the floor and not moving."

"No ..."

"Or maybe things weren't that bad, eh? Maybe you thought a little ... togetherness might fix things. Perhaps you tried to get intimate and perhaps you succeeded. But then, a few hours later, Nick decides that it was just a goodbye thing and he still wants you out - so you fight. You hit him, he hits you - but he's taller and stronger than you so you reach for a weapon."

"No! That's not how it happened at all! I left there! I wasn't there more than ten minutes! I couldn't just stand there with that new man looking at me! I left! I went home!"

"Not according to the neighbours." Warner collected the file and got to his feet. "Three different neighbours recall seeing your car in the street between 8.15pm and noon the next day. Was that when you killed him?"

Blair just sat there, his mouth open. No shock, no horror, no nothing showed on his face. It was a complete blank.

"I will be placing you under arrest for the murder of Nicholas Lansdowne. I suggest you use your phone call and find yourself a good lawyer, Mr Sandburg. We are not, at this time, pursuing other lines of enquiry."

With that, he turned and left the room. Instantly, Jim spun and met him out in the hallway. "Warner, wait! You can't honestly believe Sandburg did this?"

"Ellison, I don't bother with belief or otherwise. At the moment, your partner is our prime suspect. The evidence certainly points to him."

"But it's all circumstantial. There's no forensic evidence tying him to the scene."

"Apart from his fingerprints?" Warner stepped back and shook his head. "I have a search warrant for both his home and office."

Temper rising, Jim had to hold on tight not to explode. He felt Simon's heavy presence behind him and wanted to shout at both of them. "This is ridiculous. Sandburg wouldn't even carry a gun to back me up on the street. There's no way he would do something like this."

Warner raised a calm eyebrow. "I note you say would rather than could. Your loyalty to your partner is admirable, Detective but I suspect it is misplaced. Your real loyalty should be to the law."

"Why? When the law is ready to convict him for something he didn't do?"

"If he's innocent, Detective, then he will be found so. You've spent years trusting the law. I suggest you continue to do so. I also suggest you hold yourself immediately available. I have a few questions for you."

Jim caught himself up. He paused, then nodded. "Fine. But I want to see Sandburg."

"Not yet. Not until he's booked and processed." Warner turned, ready to leave. "Room one, Detective, in ten minutes."

There wasn't anything to do now but sit and wait. Sit and count the minutes. There wasn't even the semblance of freedom to play with, just the frayed ends of his favourite shirt, the one he'd have to replace soon.

But how do you replace a favourite shirt?

Nick was dead.

Dead.

It just didn't seem to fit. Those words together. Just didn't.

Nick couldn't be dead. He wasn't the kind of guy to get murdered like that. He was the kind of guy who would grow into old age ungraciously, complaining all the time about how his hair was going grey and when he'd start arranging his first plastic surgery. He was the kind of guy who was bothered about getting old, bothered about looking good and taking care of himself. He was the kind of guy who took care of others. Took care of Blair.

He'd been interested from the first. Blair hadn't.

Sure, he'd been charmed - and flattered by the attention. When he'd first met the man at that craft fair, Nick had left every one of his customers and had spent nearly half an hour trying to convince Blair to go out with him.

Blair had lost count of the number of times he'd said no - and of the number of different ways Nick had tried to get him to agree - all with the utmost charm, the utmost humour - and all of it was seeping into Blair, all of it. So when Nick had turned up at Rainier the next day, a picnic lunch in his hands, Blair had really had no choice but to give in. He'd laughed about it for days. He'd never been pursued like that before. Never felt somebody want him that much.

And Nick had wanted him. They'd gone out that first night. They'd had dinner, walked along the waterfront, talked and laughed until Nick had kissed him and Blair had realized that he wanted Nick just as much.

Even that first night in bed, Blair had felt something different about this man, different from the others he'd gone out with. None of them had lasted beyond a second date - but Nick? Nick rang him every day. Nick sent him notes. Nick left gifts for him in his office or on the pillow in the morning if he had to leave early. Nick always smiled hugely when he saw Blair, always pouted a little when they had to part. Nick always touched him with such genuine want. And he'd thought, in fact, he'd been convinced - that Nick loved him.

And now, Nick was dead.

And Nick had never loved him. Nor had he loved Nick.

In fact, Nick had happily cheated on him, with some guy Blair could hardly remember now. Just a few moments he'd had to look at that smug face - and that was it. That smug look - on the face of a murderer.

But Nick was still dead.

Blair got up. He pushed the chair back and stood. He turned and paced a little, a burning energy rippling through his body which would normally mean he'd get a lot of work done tonight except -

Except that, unless a miracle happened some time in the next few hours, he'd spend tonight in a cell, arrested for the murder of a man he couldn't believe was dead. A man he'd shared his bed with for three months. A man he'd spent the last few weeks hating.

Fingerprints. Car ... damn, why had he forgotten about the car! Lamp. Relationship. Split up. Nick and murder.

I'm fucked.

"Blair?"

He paused and glanced up at the uniform cop standing by the door. "What?"

"I'd be more comfortable if you sat down, okay?"

The level request hit him like a slap in the face. "What? You afraid I'll jump you?"

"Please."

"Oh, and manners makes it okay, does it? What gets you most? That I'm in here for murder - or that I was sleeping with ... with the deceased, eh?"

"Just sit!" No more Mr Nice Guy.

"Sure." Blair snapped. "I'll sit. Wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable, would we?"

He pulled out his chair and sat, deliberately turning his back on the other man.

Yeah, he was fucked. Royally.

Even Simon thought he was guilty. Probably the guys in the bullpen as well. The gossip would be all over by now. Jim wouldn't be able to help hearing it...

Blair swallowed.

Jim.

Jim wouldn't ... he wouldn't ... Would he? Would he think ...

He was a cop. He'd look at the evidence and he'd ...

Blair swallowed again, his eyes stinging. He took a deep breath, trying to contain the heavy thing sitting in his chest.

If Jim thought he was guilty ... then he really was fucked ...

But if Jim thought he was innocent ...

He closed his eyes.

Jim wouldn't be allowed in on an IA case. He wouldn't get to see the files, wouldn't be allowed anywhere near the crime scene and certainly wouldn't be allowed to see the body. So all the things Jim would normally do to solve a crime like this, he would be prevented from doing. But if he knew Jim, that wouldn't stop the man. Jim would do anything and everything within his power to help Blair. Not Simon, not IA not the devil himself would stop him.

As long as he believed Blair was innocent.

Yeah, definitely fucked.

"Okay, Detective, how long have you known Blair Sandburg?"

"Almost three years."

"And he lives in your apartment with you?"

"That's right."

"How would you describe your relationship?"

"We're friends. Partners."

"Partners? Here, at the PD?"

"That's right?"

"Nothing more?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"That's not for me to judge."

"Then rephrase your question."

"Are you and Mr Sandburg intimate?"

"What difference would it make if we were?"

"In what we believe was a crime of passion, possibly quite a bit. Do you and Mr Sandburg have an intimate relationship?"

"We're friends."

"Are you sleeping together?"

"No."

"Have you in the past?"

"No."

"Were you aware of your partner's homosexual relationship with the deceased?"

"Yes."

"Were you aware of their break-up?"

"Yes."

"Would you say Mr Sandburg was upset about it?"

"Yes."

"Upset enough to go back there the next night and kill his ex-lover?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"What time did he leave home the night of the 12th?"

"I don't know - maybe eight or so."

"When did you next see him?"

"About six the next morning."

"And what frame of mind did he appear to be in?"

"He was upset. Bitter. Angry with himself for not realizing Nick had been cheating on him. But he pulled himself together and went to work with me later."

"Did he seem unusually upset?"

"How usual is it for a man to find his lover has been cheating on him? Yes, he was upset. But I know Blair and if he'd just come back from killing the man, he would have been a lot more upset than that."

"So you'd say you know Blair that well."

"Yes. I would."

"Did you know he was going to see Nick that evening?"

"Yes."

"Did you expect him home?"

"I didn't know. I thought there was a possibility they might get back together."

"So Blair was determined to get Nick back?"

"I don't know about determined - but I'm sure the thought crossed his mind."

"And you went out what time?"

"About half an hour after that."

"And you were on a case until you got home."

"Yes."

"Weren't you worried about your partner?"

"Yes."

"Did you try to call him?"

"...."

"Detective?"

"Yes, I did."

"At what time?"

"About eleven and again at about two."

"And did you speak to him?"

"No. I got the machine both times."

"But he was there when you got home."

"Yes. He was asleep on the couch."

"What was he wearing?"

"Wearing?"

"Yes, his clothes. Were they the same ones he'd gone out in?"

"No."

"I see. Do you have any evidence to suggest that somebody other than your partner was responsible for the murder of Nicholas Lansdowne?"

"No."

"Thank you, Detective. That will be all for now."

Simon sat in his office and watched the bullpen. For the last hour, he'd fended off calls from neighbouring departments and even one from the mayor. Questions about Sandburg. Questions about what he was going to do about Sandburg. Questions about how deeply involved his best detective was with this affair. Questions about how long it would take the press to find out.

But the bullpen was quiet. Almost ghostly. Not a word of laughter - not even from Henry Brown. It was eerie. What was worse was that nobody was asking him. They all knew. They'd all seen him bring Sandburg in, saw the IA guys arrive and head into interrogation, knew Jim was in there now. But nobody was asking him anything. As though they already knew.

But what did they know? That Sandburg was guilty - or innocent?

Or did it have as much to do with the revelation about Sandburg's relationship with Lansdowne?

Jim hadn't seemed surprised - but Simon had been. He'd never thought for one second that Blair had been interested in men. Not for one minute. He could have sworn that Blair was as straight as they came. He was always full of tales about the women he was seeing - god, the bullpen was littered with his cast-offs. So how could he have known?

But Jim had known. Did it bother him?

Didn't seem to - but that was no guarantee.

A movement from the left caught Simon's eye and he watched as Jim emerged from interrogation and come down the hall, like trouble bound up with a thundercloud frown. He stalked through the bullpen and right into Simon's office.

"We have to do something."

"Like what?"

"IA isn't looking for other suspects, Simon. There has to be a killer out there - and it's up to us to find him. We need to get a description of this other guy from Sandburg. We need to look into Lansdowne's past, see if he's got any enemies. We have to do something."

"And you don't think IA will investigate fully?"

"No! I don't! Jesus, Simon, what is it with you? Do you think Sandburg did this?"

"You don't."

"DO YOU!"

Simon rose to his feet and placed his hands on his desk. "Your partner has been arrested on a charge of first degree murder, Detective. The matter is being investigated by IA. Anything - and I mean anything that we do will be seen as an attempt to pervert the course of that investigation, an attempt to protect one of our own. So I'm going to make this a direct order, Jim, you will not now, nor at any point indulge your desire to investigate further. If I find you have disobeyed me, I will suspend you. Do I make myself clear?"

Jim stood there, blinking slowly, "I don't believe you, Simon," he said softly. "Blair helped save your life on two separate occasions. He's risked his life I don't know how many times for the sake of this department. If he was a cop, would you be acting like this?"

"The fact that he's not a cop makes no difference to me."

"But you still think he's guilty, don't you? I thought you knew him better than that. I thought you trusted him."

Simon took his seat again and leaned back. "I thought I knew him too - and let's not beat around the bush here - Sandburg has risked his life in this department to help you. You're the reason he's here, no other."

"So you're going to throw him to the wolves because he's what ... gay? Because he's not a cop and because he was sleeping with Lansdowne. Right. I get it. Funny, you know, because he always thought you were his friend. I thought you, above all people, would be inclined to believe in him. When has he ever given you reason to think he can't be trusted?"

Simon sat up and made a show of getting back to work. "I suggest you go home and get some rest."

"I'm not leaving here without Sandburg."

"He'll be lucky to get bail tonight."

"Then I'll be sleeping outside his cell."

"Damnit, Jim!" Simon snapped. "The man's accused of murder! Are you going to throw your career away on this?"

"Yeah, if I have to."

Simon could see it. Right there, in the man's eyes. Danger marked every inch of that face, every muscle in that body. Jim Ellison would not be moved on this. Jim Ellison was sure. He was determined. He was positive. He ... knew his partner was innocent.

Where did that leave Simon?

Edging away from doubt?

But the evidence...

Did he really? Doubt Sandburg?

"Shit."

He sank back into his seat and shook his head. Almost instantly, some of the tension eased in Jim's face.

"Please, Simon, let me look into it. Let me get at the evidence. You know what I can do. We can't just abandon him."

"The point is, I don't have control over it and you know it."

"Then I'll have to do it on my own."

"No."

"You can't stop me."

"Then," Simon sighed. This was not turning out to be one of his better days. "You leave me no choice but to suspend you."

The Ellison jaw clenched shut - but he moved quickly, pulling out his gun and shield. He slapped both on Simon's desk and walked out of the office without another word.

Jim walked down the corridor with no thought of where he was going. He just walked. It wasn't until he got to the break room that he stopped. He just came to a halt. He turned, went in and sat.

Blair was being booked. If they were quick, they might be able to get a judge to set bail tonight. So Jim needed money. Fast.

He pushed the door closed and picked up the phone. Three calls later and he had most of what he suspected the figure would be. But he'd run out of ideas. If there was some way to find Naomi, she was sure to have some money put aside. Or perhaps he should ask his father ... Or Stephen ...

No. Not Stephen. Sure, he'd help - but Jim had already involved him in one way - more would be dangerous.

Carefully, he closed his eyes and opened up his hearing, listening for Warner's voice - or better still, Blair's. He could find neither.

The break room door opened and Jim looked around. Joel was standing there, hand on the door, a little hesitant. "What is it? More bad news?"

"Simon told me he suspended you."

"I guess I'd better get out of here, then."

"No - I guess, yes - but that's not ... I mean .. Well, hell, Jim, does Blair need bail money? I've got some I can get my hands on. Is he okay? He must be upset that this friend of his has been murdered. I just wanted to ... you know ..."

Like a flood falling away, Jim found almost every muscle in his body suddenly relax. All but those in his face, which formed a welcome smile. "Thanks, Joel. Yes, the money would be good. I've got most of it - but I think we'll need more."

"What about a lawyer?"

"I don't know. I'll have to talk to Blair about it first."

Joel came in and sat down. "Have you spoken to him yet?"

"No. They won't let me see him until he's finished in processing."

"Well, when you do see him, tell that we're all with him, okay? Everyone. We want to help. And ..."

"What?"

"Simon ... well, when he told me he'd suspended you, he said to ... help out."

"Help out?" Jim frowned, glanced over his shoulder towards the bullpen and then back at Joel. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Well, I don't know, Jim," Joel offered a small smile. "What do you think it means?"

Jim's smile grew. He knew Simon wouldn't let him down - not once he'd had a chance to think about it. There's no way anybody who knew Blair could think he was a murderer. "Well, I think we could interpret it a number of different ways. For a start, there's moral support."

"True."

"And then, there's a few things I need done - just to clear up my desk, of course."

"Of course. And those would be?"

"Oh, I don't know. Running a background check on Nick Lansdowne maybe? Friends and associates? Business contacts?"

Joel grinned. "You got it."

"But spread the work out if you can. I don't want anybody to notice anything, okay?"

"I'll call you with what we come up with in the morning."

"Joel, you're a pal."

"I hope so."

It took forever. Every minute lasted its own forever, and then there was another minute to live through. And another after that. Drawing out, excruciating, silent. Each a little death, all on it's own.

He didn't dare think what might happen. Didn't dare let his imagination run free. But every noise he heard, every word outside in the corridor, every time somebody said something to him, was like another nail in his coffin. Having his fingerprints taken was even worse. The mug shot? He shuddered. Forms, paperwork, the way people looked at him, the way they refused to.

Dirt. That's what he was now. A spec of dirt to be trodden beneath their boots.

Guilty until proven innocent.

Evidence of past behaviour was no guarantee of future behaviour.

Trust it seemed, had a short life-span. A use-by date that ran only as far as the next minute. More fragile than life itself. And where does a man go if nobody trusts him?

He hadn't seen anything of Jim. No word, no visit. Nothing.

No Simon, no Joel, no Rafe or Brown. He was alone, surrounded by people. Surrounded by those who once looked upon him as a friend but who now saw him only as an enemy.

He filled out forms. He signed his statement. Warner made a reappearance and said something about asking more questions tomorrow. Something else about how the search of the loft had found nothing. And Warner was so nice about it, so polite, so calm. So butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth pleasant it only made the sick feeling in Blair's stomach worse.

The weight inside him wouldn't shift. Every thought he had only added to it. Every thought he avoided only fed it, kept it alive.

He wouldn't last. He knew that. It had only been hours so far but if he had to live the rest of his life in prison, he knew he wouldn't last. He wouldn't want to. Perhaps they'd be merciful and give him the death penalty.

He couldn't live without freedom. Couldn't be anything that he wanted to be, anything that he was. And he was small, relatively defenceless. He'd lose out big time in the prison environment. Lose out when faced with real criminals for whom violence was a way of life.

No, he wouldn't last. Wouldn't want to. Would do anything - yes, anything to avoid that fate.

So he was now down to looking for opportunities. At least it was something to keep himself occupied with.

Then finally, the whole horrible process was over and he was taken down to holding. A lamb to the slaughter. The cells. Cold and full of people he didn't want to know.

It was amazing really, how easy it was to give up. Amazing how little effort it took. Amazing that somebody who had always been such a fighter, would do it so happily. But it was easier this way. Easier to live with it. Easier to just roll and take the punches and not worry about it. He'd been fighting every day for the last three weeks and where had it got him? Had it made a difference - a positive difference? He'd pretty much lost Jim - and he'd definitely lost Nick. What was the point of fighting now?

It was just too tiring. Too hard to keep going like that. He'd run out of energy, run out of the strength he needed to do it. If he'd not gone through all that crap with Nick - or better still, if all that stuff hadn't happened with Jim, he might have been left with something to fight with - or for. But time had robbed him and he was now bereft, content to drift, to let it lie.

The cell door closed behind him. He listened for the clank of metal, listened for the echo. He paid no attention to his cell-mates. He just found a vacant spot by a wall and sat.

A meal was brought around at some point. He hardly noticed. He wasn't hungry. Then the trays were cleared away and things settled down again.

He drifted.

Calm.

He left the cell behind and just drifted. Back. In time. Back to moments with Naomi, when he'd been a kid. A drive across the country some time when he was eleven. They'd sung songs in the car, making up verses as they went along. He'd eaten apples and thrown the cores out the window, hoping to plant apple trees all across the country. Naomi had laughed and encouraged him.

Drifting took him further, to another age. Seventeen. At school. A boy in class. They'd become friends. They'd gone on walks in the forest together. They'd kissed. Sweet, all of it.

And then not so sweet. Drifting. Drifting forward until two nights ago. With Jim.

How could he have known that would happen? He hadn't wanted it. Would never have wanted that with anybody - let alone Jim. But he'd reacted so badly when they were camping. So much of it was his fault.

He should have been willing to talk about it. Should have been there for his friend. Should have been a better friend. A good friend, like Jim had taught him. After all, hadn't he gone through the whole sexuality question himself? Couldn't he have been just a little more understanding?

And really, that was the core of his shame - not that they'd had sex - but that he'd allowed it to get that bad. He should have helped Jim - not condemned him. Jim had taught him a lot about friendship - he'd thought he'd learned better than that.

He should have talked to Jim about it. Posed him a few questions. Made a few suggestions - and then, if Jim really was sure about it, perhaps offered to introduce him to a nice guy - or take him somewhere he could meet somebody or ...

Drifting hurt.

They'd been drifting apart, hadn't they?

Drifting until it was no longer possible to pretend they were friends. And so that ... thing had happened on the floor. Harsh and desperate and horrible and yet so ... so ...

Necessary?

"Chief?"

He opened his eyes and turned to look up. Jim was standing there, waiting. Beside him stood a uniformed officer, pulling out keys.

"Come on, Chief. Time to get out of here."

Frowning a little, Blair got to his feet. This didn't make any sense. He'd been arrested for killing Nick - were they now letting him go?

Jim took his arm and steered him out of the cell. They headed down the corridor and made for the stairs to the garage. Blair just went along with it. After all, it wasn't like he had a choice any more.

Jim didn't like the quiet - but he couldn't really find anything to say on the drive home. Blair was immobile - a bad sign. He just sat in his seat, staring out the window at nothing. Even when Jim swerved to avoid a car pulling out he said nothing.

Jim couldn't do anything about it until he got home. But when he pulled up outside their building and got out, Blair just sat there.

He walked around and opened the door. "Chief? You okay?"

Blair turned his head slowly, blinked once and said, "Why are we here?"

"We live here."

"You live here."

"So do you."

"Oh." But he still sat there so Jim had to take his elbow and gently urge him out, lead him into the building and up to the loft. He opened the door and ushered Blair inside, turning on lights.

Without pausing, he made for the coffee pot, making the brew a little stronger than normal. Then he went into Blair's room and grabbed him some sweats, clean and fresh. He didn't bother with words when he came out. Blair was standing where he'd left him. Suppressing an internal sigh, Jim just took his arm and led him into the bathroom. He turned the shower on and hoped for a moment, that Blair would emerge from wherever he was with the promise of getting clean. It didn't happen.

Determined, Jim began to strip him off, tossing Blair's clothes into the hamper and snapping the lid down so neither of them would have to look. Then, with firm but gentle hands, he steered Blair into the shower. Still Blair didn't react.

Getting more worried by the moment, Jim kicked off his shoes and stepped in behind him, pulling the curtain closed. He grabbed the sponge and soap and began to wash Blair's back, carefully and evenly, down to the legs and feet. Done, he turned Blair around and began on his front. He avoided the lax genitals but only because his courage only went so far. When Blair was rinsed, he pulled out shampoo and washed Blair's hair. Throughout it all, the younger man remained zombie-like, as though all this was happening to another person and he was watching from the outside.

When he was finished, Jim turned off the water and got out. He pulled a towel around Blair, dried him off and got him dressed. He led him out to the living room, sat him down then dashed upstairs to change into some dry clothes.

He made coffee next - but decided against anything alcoholic. He needed to get Blair awake and aware - and he needed to do it soon.

Blair was lying curled up on his side on the couch when Jim came back with coffee. Staring into space without even acknowledging that Jim was even there.

"Come on, Chief, have some coffee. You'll feel a little better." Jim sat on the small table holding out the cup. "I suppose you haven't eaten, but I won't force any food on you."

No response.

Jim sipped his own coffee, searching for words that might get some movement, some sign of life. "They set bail. The guys helped me get the money together. Joel and Rafe and H are doing a background search on Nick right now. They have to work on the quiet so IA doesn't hear about it."

Nothing.

"Chief, we're not going to let you go down for this, okay?"

Still nothing.

"I want you to forget about all that other stuff. You know, what we were fighting about. None of that matters right now. We have to work together to clear you. If you like, once you're free again, we can go back to shouting or maybe we can just try talking or something."

Silence.

This was more than simple shock. This went much deeper - and it was up to Jim to pull him out of it - for both their sakes.

He put his coffee down and knelt on the floor. Carefully, he reached out and put his hand on Blair's shoulder, brushing it down his arm. He did it again, slowly, letting Blair feel his presence from whatever place he'd gone to.

"I know how you feel, Chief."

Finally, Blair blinked and opened his mouth. "Do you, Jim?"

"Sure."

"How do I feel?" The question was simple, almost child-like, as though Blair really was hoping Jim could tell him because he didn't know.

"You're not alone."

"Nick's dead."

"I know."

"Did I kill him?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"How do I feel?"

"Terrible."

"Yeah."

Jim moved to get off his knees - but Blair's hand shot out and grabbed his sleeve. He didn't let go - so Jim took a chance. He put his hand under Blair's elbow and urged him to sit up then stand up. "Come on, Chief."

He led Blair around the furniture to his room, turning off the light. He gently pushed Blair down onto his bed - but still Blair wouldn't let go of him. Some small part of him was both unsurprised - and a little pleased by that tiny, silent gesture - so Jim sat with him, let him keep the contact.

"Chief, I know you're tired and you need to rest. I know you're hurting and it feels so bad you don't want to come back - but I need your help. I need you to come back, okay? I need you to stick with me on this."

"You never asked."

That small voice was like a knife in his chest and he had to breath hard to dislodge it enough to reply. "No. I'm sorry. You were right. I ..."

"You never asked if I killed Nick."

Jim frowned, "No. I didn't need to."

"Why not?"

"Because I know you didn't kill him."

"How?"

"Because it's just not something you'd do."

"He's dead," Blair whispered. "Nick's dead."

And then Blair was tugging on his arm, pulling Jim closer and Jim moved, stretching out on the bed beside him and wrapping his arms around the smaller body. Blair was rigid in his arms but held onto him so tightly, Jim knew he'd have bruises later.

"It's okay, Chief. We'll get you out of this. I know you're scared. I know you're sorry about Nick. It's okay, you know, to feel like that. I know you were angry with him but you didn't want him to die, did you?"

"No. I only wanted him to be sorry."

"Maybe he was."

"Don't."

"What?"

"Make things up. Anybody would be sorry when their new lover killed them."

"I suppose so." Jim settled a little more comfortably, rolling onto his back and pulling Blair onto his chest. The other man made no complaint, but took the comfort as it was offered.

It was a shitty way to do it, but Jim couldn't help liking this. Couldn't help noticing the way this body felt in his arms, couldn't miss the close scent of Blair, feel the warmth, the movement of breathing. Blair was emerging, slowly perhaps, but emerging nonetheless. Soon, he wouldn't need this connection of touch to ground him - and Jim would miss it when it was gone.

He didn't dare voice his own fear.

"Chief?"

"Yes?"

"Can you tell me what happened? That night when you went to see Nick? Can you try to tell me every detail? Give me a description of this other guy?"

Blair stiffened in his arms and pulled in a breath. "I don't want to go there."

"I know. But you have to."

"Why?"

"I need to know as much as I can, so I can work out who killed Nick."

"I ... can't."

Jim waited a moment, hoping there would be more - but there wasn't. He didn't want to push this - but he was running out of time. Carefully, he lifted Blair off him and rolled them both so Blair was on his back, Jim looking down at him.

Blair's eyes were open but there was still a vacancy to them that really worried him. "Chief, it's important that you tell me, okay? Important that ..."

But Blair wasn't listening. Instead, he was studying Jim's face, his eyes drifting here and there, his hand coming up to touch lightly, to trace the contours of cheek and chin. When the fingers reached Jim's mouth, Jim caught them, held them, held onto how he was feeling inside, because it scared him, really scared him now.

He wanted ... needed to love this man so badly. But this was not the time. This was the worst time possible. He couldn't say those words now, not when there was so much else they needed to focus on.

Blair, it seemed, wasn't listening for any words at all. Within Jim's grasp, his fingers spread out over his lips, learning the shape, making things tumble and slide within Jim.

He couldn't do this. Couldn't do this and live with himself afterwards. Blair was just reaching for comfort, reaching for something he understood, something he could hold on to. Something physical and real.

And if Jim gave in now, Blair would never trust him again.

"Please, Blair," he whispered against those fingers. "I can't."

Blair stared at him, eyes wide - and instantly Jim knew he'd made a mistake. A big one. This wasn't about him - this was about Blair and giving Blair what he needed right now - not in two or three weeks, not when it was all calm and mended or anything. This was what Blair needed now and even if it did make problems later - at least they would have a later in which to regret them.

"Shh, it's okay, it's okay," Jim murmured, moving the hand up the side of his face, letting Blair feel the connection. "I know what you need."

He moved closer and brought his lips down to that exposed neck, touching, tasting, biting just a little, just enough for Blair to feel it.

"Jim... please ..."

"Okay, Chief, okay." Another kiss, further down, close to the edge of cloth, another small bite. Blair needed to feel. Needed to feel something.

So did Jim. Needed to feel this was right, so that Blair would trust him again.

He shifted slightly, pulling the cotton top up, letting his mouth discover that chest, the soft hair, the tiny buds. He tasted one with just the tip of his tongue and Blair shuddered. He lapped at it again and Blair gasped. He brought his teeth to it and Blair arched, moaning as though his need was suddenly tenfold. Jim took the bud into his mouth, letting his hands roam freely, exploring something he'd only dreamed about, but all the while, keeping track of Blair's reactions, following his responses, letting them be his guide.

Was this what loving meant?

He wanted to take longer over this, wanted to linger and play and tease and make love in every sense - but this was not his game, was not his need. He took the other nipple in his mouth, took this one harshly, feeling Blair tremble beneath him, openly displaying his need. Jim let his hand drift further down, down until he found hardness beneath his palm.

Blair clutched at him, digging fingers into his shoulder. In wonder, Jim slipped his hand inside the waistband until he could touch the straining flesh itself.

Heat. Burning heat. Hard and silky, enticing to touch, addicting. So different to how he felt to himself. So good.

His own erection was pushing at his clothes - but he ignored it. Instead, he licked and nibbled Blair's chest, letting his hand stroke the shaft slowly, carefully, lovingly.

Blair moaned. A soulful cry from deep within. Jim pulled him closer, tighter, sped up his strokes, lavished attention on the beautiful cock in his hand, squeezed it, played with the head, the balls, ran his fingers through the hair surrounding them.

Time. He wanted more time. He wanted to take that into his mouth, to love it within himself.

But this was now and Blair needed this now without explanations, without trappings, without declarations or apologies or promises.

He needed an affirmation of faith.

Jim began to stroke harder, faster, letting the joy of doing this fill him, pick him up and fly with him. Blair was moaning softly now, hardly breathing and Jim could smell it, smell the arousal, feel the precum on the cock slick his hand, feel the balls tighten and draw him closer and he didn't want this to end, didn't want it to ever end but then Blair cried out and semen began to gush over Jim's hand, and he kept going, slower and more gently until it was over, until he could stop and let go, until he could force himself to forget the name he'd heard on Blair's lips, until he could trust himself to move.

He pulled his t-shirt off and cleaned them up, tossing it into the corner. Then, his heart more sore than he would have thought possible, he gathered Blair to him and let him rest.

The air was cold around him. Chilly and damp.

Any minute now he was going to wake up and find that this last month was nothing more than a bad dream. A dream faking the affects of a nightmare.

But nightmares ended, didn't they? So why couldn't he wake up from this one? Why did it have to keep going? Where was this going to leave his normal life?

What life?

Teaching. Studying. Playing professor. Idly dallying with intellectual concepts the way a child would with a set of building blocks. Pile one on top of the other, making nice patterns, pretty colours. Little things to amuse large minds. And it was so addictive, being a part of that world. The praise lavished upon a bright student, the challenges issued and the replies given. It was a battleground where weapons were words and ideas, an electric current which flashed the air around him, keeping him wired in, keeping him excited.

Keeping him out of touch.

He studied indigenous cultures then brought those lessons home, here, to where he could apply them to the real world. But was the real world any less deserving of the same kind of study? Simply because its traditions were newer, fresher and composed of so many others?

He would never have known anything about any of it if he'd never met Jim Ellison.

In one day, he'd been involved in preventing the murder of thirty people, nearly been blown to pieces, held a gun, hit a woman, comforted children. Real people in a real situation. Helping a real sentinel achieve his potential.

Welcome to the real world.

He'd lost his innocence. But really, as an anthropologist, he should never have had any in the first place. Innocence was a luxury an academic really couldn't afford.

But it was a painful loss. A harsh embrace he and countless others would happily have lived without. His journey however, had been made so much easier than it could have been because his guide had been a man who understood what it meant, understood the undercurrents, the shifts in perception, the dangers of falling too far either side of that very narrow line. He had himself, ventured into the darkness of doubt, of despair, of need and desperation - and he had survived. He'd learned how to live with it and he'd given the gift of his experience with a free heart.

"Are you awake?"

Blair heard the voice from two directions. His head still rested on Jim's chest, his face pressed against warm flesh and a gentle thud of life. "Yes."

"Can you talk now?"

Now? Had he ever been able to talk? Had there ever been anything more than words? In all the things that had gushed out of his mouth, had there been anything real involved?

Anger was so easy to communicate. Despair, frustration, confusion. Too easy. The gut reacted and brought them to the fore in words too hard to retract. Once said, they were out there, on permanent record. It didn't matter if the meaning had only been fleeting. It didn't matter that there were other things, much harder to say that should have been left in their place, things that had meanings that would last a lifetime and more.

"Yeah, I can talk." More than that. He could do more than that. He could let go. He rolled away from Jim, sat up on the side of the bed, back to the other man. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back out of the way. He grabbed a tie and quickly wrapped it up. He didn't have the patience for more. "What do you want to know?"

It was dark outside. Still night. Late, by the sounds of the traffic below. One long night curved around infinity like a protective blanket. Nightmares ended. Real life just went on.

"I need to know what happened at Nick's that night. What you said, what he said. And I need a description of the other guy."

"Yeah, I guess you do." Blair got up and went into the kitchen. He cleaned out the coffee machine and refilled it. He took a short trip into the bathroom, peed, cleaned his teeth, combed his hair and tied it back up. He grabbed his glasses on the way back out and found Jim putting cups on the bench.

The bigger man didn't even glance at him. He wore his hurt well, as though he were accustomed to it, as though he expected it. He'd thrown a shirt on over his bare chest and for that, Blair was glad. Less of a reminder of what had happened last night.

As if he were ever going to forget.

Just who, exactly, was the teacher here?

"You left here about eight, didn't you?"

"Yeah." Blair leaned back against the bench by the coffee machine, folding his arms.

"Did you go straight to Nick's?"

"Yes." And Blair continued then, on his own, because he really, really didn't want this to come out like another interrogation, didn't want Jim to have to treat him like a suspect. So he told the story, letting memory fill him, letting details come forth from vocal inflection to clothes, to scents in the air. He left nothing out, not even his feelings. It was a total package, to be told this way or not at all. Jim had the coffee poured and was handing him a cup by the time he was finished.

"And nothing seemed out of the ordinary to you?"

If anybody else had asked this question, Blair would have snapped - but three years working with a sentinel had taught him a lot. Patience for a start. "No. Not that I could see. He was getting ready to go away for a few weeks. I suppose that's why nobody noticed he was missing until the other day."

"Giving the killer a good chance of getting away before anybody noticed a crime had been committed."

"Yeah." Blair sipped his coffee and looked up. Jim was standing with his back to the island, mug in one hand, his gaze somewhere in the distance before him. "Jim?"

"Yeah?"

So many things out there between them now, so many of them bad. He had to replace one of them. If only one was all he could afford. "You're a good friend."

Jim's expression turned hard, cracked at the edges. His eyes grew overly bright and that muscle in his jaw began working. He didn't look at Blair but shook his head instead, "No, Chief. I'm not. You want to put some warm clothes on? We really need to get moving. We'll only have a couple of hours as it is."

He parked four streets away, in front of an all-night market. They went in the front door and emerged from the back then headed out, keeping to shadows. It took no more than five minutes to reach Nick's house, the only mark of the police investigation visible from the street being the yellow tape across the door.

Jim led the way around the back and let Blair guide him to a window that might be opened. Under cover of a maple bush, they pulled on rubber gloves, climbed inside - and Jim was instantly assaulted with the odour of a body three weeks decomposing before discovery.

He groaned - and immediately Blair was there.

"Okay, Jim, just dial it down."

"Should have brought masks. Can't you smell it?"

Blair blinked a moment then nodded, "Yeah, I can smell it. Would have been worse if we'd come yesterday, when he was still here."

Jim wanted to hug him then, for that small, frail attempt at humour. Seemed Blair was tougher than they both thought. "Come on. Show me where the hall is. You don't need to go in."

Blair simply turned and made his way through the kitchen and living room before he paused in an archway. A taped marker lay on the wooden floor, depicting the shape of a body.

Jim reached out. Blair had called him a good friend so he reached out and squeezed a shoulder rigid and stiff with shock. Blair just nodded a little and stood aside for Jim to have a look around.

Nick had fallen in the hall, but his legs remained in the living room. Most of the pottery lamp had been collected, but even in the dark, he could pick up small shards here and there, a faint powder residue by the wall. He touched a finger to it, bringing up to smell. "Is there anything missing? That you notice?"

"In here? Apart from the lamp... " Blair paused and turned around. "Well, there were a couple of new ebony statues on the mantle. They're not there now."

"When did you last see them?"

"I don't know."

"Think, Chief, it might be important. Were they there when you were here that night?"

"No ... I don't think so."

"Anything else?"

Blair paused and shook his head, "No, nothing."

Jim knelt down and took a close look at the blood stain on the floor. He could detect nothing overtly unusual about it.

"Do you think," Blair's whisper caught the air. "That if you hadn't been a sentinel, you would still have been a cop?"

"I became a cop before I became a sentinel." Jim shifted and looked further along the skirting board. More faint evidence of the lamp were there as well, along with some glass - probably the bulb.

"But you were always a sentinel, remember? What I mean is, are there things about being a cop that interested you outside of needing to protect the tribe."

"Like?"

"Like wanting to find answers to things. Like needing to understand why people act the way they do."

Jim straightened up and turned, paying close attention now to the door. "I suppose so. Though I don't know how much I understand even now, after all these years."

"You know enough to look in the right places."

"That's just practice and training. And you taught me how to use my senses in my work."

There was nothing on the door so Jim turned again and glanced at Blair. "Which way is the bedroom?"

He could see the question on Blair's lips, wanting to ask why he needed to see the bedroom - but it remained unasked. He nodded, stepped over the tape and headed down the hall, stopping before an open door. Jim went in.

It was like all those awful compulsions he'd tried to avoid all through his life. It was like every bad dream he'd ever had. It was like every shadow he'd ever dwelt in had taken up residence in that room.

And he could afford to ignore none of them. The choice wasn't his. The choice lay with IA and a case they intended to pursue. So Jim had to approach the bed, had to examine the bare mattress and look for things he had no right to know about.

IA had already taken the sheets. They'd obviously found no direct evidence on them or it would have come into Blair's interrogation.

He leaned close, breathing deeply. The bed had been used. There were scents here, some he recognized, some he didn't. Not wanting to ask Blair for help, he concentrated and isolated, just as he'd been taught. Yes, he could scent Blair on the bed - and ... Nick. He recognized enough to count out two distinct presences - but there was another, here, a slightly stronger smell, more ... acrid. This had to be the murderer. The new lover.

He pulled the torch out of his pocket and flashed it on the floor beside the bed. Getting down close, he found strands of fair hair embedded in the rug, Nick's hair. He looked further and found others, darker, curly and he had to hold his breath because this was too much, too close, even worse than looking at the bed though that had been shitty as well and why, why in god's name had he never realized how he felt until now, until it was too late? Why hadn't he known before and done something before Blair had given so much to a man who hadn't given a damn about him?

But Jim couldn't, could he? Though he loved, he couldn't do more, couldn't give more - not in the way Blair had given to Nick. Couldn't be more than a friend.

His fingers moved until they found what they were looking for. Another hair. Dark - but shorter and definitely not curly. He left it where it was and straightened up.

Gritting his teeth, Jim opened the bedside drawer. He ignored the items he found in there - for none of them matched the other scent that he'd been getting in this room. It was so faint, he could almost have missed it - but with his senses dialled right up, it sat there, a question begging attention. He tried the other drawers, under the bed, in the closet. In every conceivable nook this room possessed.

Nothing.

He straightened up and turned for the door, to find Blair standing there, watching him, his gaze flickering towards the bed and back. Grim, determined, holding on and it took all of Jim's self-control not to reach out again, reach out and be the good friend because he really didn't know what that was any more. Didn't know where the lines had been drawn and where the rule book was hidden.

Blair glanced back to him again and Jim could feel the faint flush burn those cheeks. "I'm sorry, man. This can't be ... I don't know ... can't be easy for you to ..."

"Forget it, Chief." Jim waved a hand to dismiss the suggestion. He couldn't begin to get close to it and they didn't have time right now. "Did Nick own a gun?"

Blair frowned, "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. We had a long talk about it once. He felt much the same way about it as I did. He wouldn't even have one in the house."

"Was there any chance he was just saying that? Because it's what you wanted to hear?"

"When he was a kid, his next door neighbour's father was in the army. When the father was at home, he would dismantle his service revolver and hide the pieces in different parts of the house. One day when the mother was outside, the older boy got all the pieces together, loaded the gun and shot and killed his baby sister by accident. The boy was seven years old and Nick's best friend. No, Nick would never have a gun in the house." Blair took a breath. "Why?"

"I'm getting traces of gun oil here and there. Things that don't belong - but I can't find any physical evidence. If it was just the forensics team and the investigating cops, then the smell would be all through the house - but I can only smell it in here. It's not that strong, but then again, the trail is three weeks old."

"But if it's three weeks old, it must have been pretty strong at the time of the murder."

"Exactly."

"So Nick's lover had a gun."

"That's right." Jim turned and made for the built-in closet. He slid the door open to find a row of shirts hanging where the dead man had left them. The scent of gun oil was stronger here - much stronger. Perhaps the man had hidden here when he'd heard Blair arrive.

"Nick couldn't have known about the gun."

"No."

"So why didn't he use it? Why use the lamp?"

"Perhaps he was going to. Until you walked in. If he was standing in here with the intent to kill Nick, he might have taken his gun out, just in case. There might be faint traces of gun oil on some of these clothes. I don't know. Without a proper forensics test, we can't prove it."

"But that doesn't answer why he didn't use it."

"Why kill Nick that night? Probably minutes after you left? Why use a lamp he would have known had your fingerprints all over it?"

Blair paled, "Shit."

"Exactly." He headed out of the bedroom, "Come on, I want to look at the bathroom."

White tiles and black trimmings and art deco. Very tidy and neat in a way that repulsed Jim. Too tidy. As though the bathroom was never used but kept in this condition to impress people. How could Blair have felt comfortable here?

Tidy - but not clean. Not spotlessly clean. There was a mark, on the wall grouting below the basin. Just a spec.

Blood.

Jim fished a plastic bag and tweezers out of his pocket. He scraped the evidence into the bag and set about looking for more. He found a second and collected that as well. He felt Blair's presence behind him. "How are you doing?"

Blair's voice was steady, if a little rough. "Okay."

"The killer washed in here - then cleaned the bathroom thoroughly. I'd bet forensics found nothing in here."

"How come he didn't leave any fingerprints? I mean, if he and Nick ... well, if they'd been here before that night ..."

"There's no guarantee the killer had ever been here before that night - and in fact, the chances were, he hadn't. You spent a lot of time here. If Nick was hiding something, he would hardly bring it home where you'd find out about it."

"I guess."

"And maybe the killer had only just arrived before you did..."

"So ... you ... didn't ... um, get any ... anything from the bed?"

Jim kept his gaze down. This was not a good time to look up. "Yes."

"Aw ... shit ... I ..."

Jim drove on, not wanting to give him a moment longer to think about stuff he hated. "On the other hand, the killer might just have easily spent a good hour wiping everything down, changing the sheets. Forensics don't dust every single surface, you know. There could be fingerprints here they didn't find."

"But he did touch the lamp."

Jim put the scant evidence in his pocket and turned to face the smaller man. "Yeah."

"So, he was what? Wearing gloves?"

"That's the most likely scenario."

"So ... it was deliberate? He meant to kill Nick when he got here?"

"Meant to kill Nick and use you as a scapegoat. Yes." Jim flexed his fingers within his own gloves. "I hope when Joel gives us that background information this will start to make sense - but from the looks of it, I'd say this was a contract kill."

"Oh, fuck!" Blair sagged against the wall. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty much, yeah. He had means and opportunity. We just need to find the motivation and we might have a case."

"But, Jim, I had means and opportunity - and motivation!"

"But you didn't have enough motivation, did you?"

For a moment, Blair just stared at him. Then abruptly, his eyes filled with tears and he turned and left. Jim found him waiting in the kitchen by the window, ready to leave.

"Are you okay?"

"Let's just get out of here."

The exit was easier and Jim deliberately took a different route back to the truck. They were on the way back home before Blair said another word. "Patrick said he thought Nick had lied to me about a lot of things in his past."

"I've always thought Patrick was pretty good with people." Jim glanced aside, "Do you think it's possible?"

"That Nick was involved with something that might get him killed?" Blair paused, then nodded. "Yeah, I think so. I mean, when I realized he had someone else, I was shocked, you know? Like when you suggested it and I didn't want to think that might happen, that he'd do something like that to me but then when I saw it, I guess I wasn't as shocked as I should have been. But I was ... hurt and that kind of overwhelmed everything else. It's just so ... hard to make sense of it when you're in the middle, you know? That was the first time I'd been with a guy for more than a couple of dates and I don't know, I kept thinking that maybe he was different. Maybe there was something good there and I guess I blew it. Maybe I pushed too hard or tried too hard or didn't do enough but one way or the other I can't help thinking that if we hadn't broken up, Nick might still be alive."

"Or you might be dead as well."

He felt shocked eyes on him and he shrugged, "If it was a contract kill, Nick had had it anyway. If you'd still been with him, it's possible you might have been taken out as well."

"But ... but if it was a contract, why did the guy string Nick along? Why sleep with him before ..."

"We don't know that's what happened. As far as I can tell, they'd been in bed together some time before you turned up that night. That might have been the first time for all we know."

"Do you think he knew? That he was in danger?"

"Did he seem nervous to you?"

"No."

"Then I'd say he didn't have a clue." Jim wanted to ask, wanted to go back a bit and ask about those other guys Blair had gone out with, the ones that had only lasted a couple of dates. Wanted to know what was different about Nick. Wanted to ask why it had taken so long for Blair to admit he'd been dating guys for a long time. Wanted to ask how he'd felt about it in the beginning - but he couldn't ask something like that. Not now.

Perhaps never.

"Do you think Joel will find anything?"

"We'll know in the morning."

"It's almost morning now."

"Did he ... I mean, you didn't ..."

Jim felt the smile come easily, "Joel approached me, all on his own. He told me to tell you that the guys were all behind you and that they'd do anything to get you clear of this, okay?"

"And what about Simon?"

The smile faded, but he chose his words carefully, "Simon is worried about making sure the investigation is clean - so that when you're cleared, there's no doubt left to worry anybody."

"He thinks I'm guilty, though."

Jim shrugged, pulling into Prospect with a quick glance for police cars. "I think you had him scared for a while, yes. But it was his suggestion that Joel ... help me out - so I guess that means he knows you're innocent." He parked and went to open his door but Blair put a hand on his arm.

"Jim? How did you know?"

And that was too close. Too close to what had happened between them tonight. Too close to the hurt and the accusations he'd thrown at himself. He couldn't look at Blair - even though he wanted to, even though, if he'd been a stronger man, he would have turned and told him the truth, all of it. So he kept his gaze on the steering wheel and shook his head, "I know you, Chief. I trust you."

He got out of the truck then, locked the door and headed inside. Blair joined him in the elevator but had returned to his silent world, on his own. Jim would have liked to have joined him there.

Continued in part four.