Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Cafe/3281

Author's disclaimer: All characters having appeared or been mentioned on the UPN series, "The Sentinel" are the property of Paramount Televison and/or Pet Fly Productions. All I know for sure is that they aren't mine, and I'm not making any money off this. I am having alot of fun.

Author's notes: This story is a follow up to "The Sandburg Chronicles". It can be read as a stand alone piece, as references to events in the first story are pretty easy to understand on their own. Its timeline runs just beyond the end of the second season. Regarding the guys' third season dalliances--for this story's purposes, I'm ignoring them. (I love having the power to annihilate the BOTWs!) The entries are numbered to correspond with the episodes until the final ep of the second season. Numbers after the "Sleeping Beauty" reference are just, well, entry numbers. Jim is not as anal as he's accused of being, because he didn't organize his diary with titles.

Thank you to my ever-loyal beta reader and sounding board, Virginia Call. ;-)

The Ellison Reports - part one
(Transcribed from Jim's diary by Candy Apple)

Entry #1

I've always been told you're supposed to confess all your honest feelings when you start this kind of a journal or it doesn't really serve it's purpose. Okay. Here's an honest feeling. I hate writing these damned entries. It's only marginally less annoying that writing those damned reports every time I stop a jaywalker.

I've also always wondered what possible good something like this does. It's not as if the unnamed person or entity to whom you're speaking is going to do anything about your situation. I did read one time that a good way to deal with problems that frustrate or frighten you was to write about them. So here I am. I'm frustrated, though a little less frightened than I was a couple days ago. But I'm jumping ahead of myself here.

I spent eighteen months in the jungle in Peru. That was not by choice. While I was there, I found I had a knack of picking up on things before anyone else did. I don't know a better way to explain it than that. I heard things before others heard them--sometimes they never did end up hearing them--spotted things in the distance way before anyone else, plus my senses of smell and taste seemed so acute at times that it was a curse. It was great for tracking, but lousy for living in any degree of peace. I was able to discern things through my sense of touch that quite frankly surprised me. I didn't think much about it after I left the jungle. I thought it was just one more way the human body can miraculously adapt to its surroundings and challenges.

Everything seemed to be back to normal when I got home. Well, as normal as you feel after spending 18 months in the jungle. The whole pace was hard to catch up with again. Maybe that was the biggest adjustment. I had plenty to do with the tribe, but I didn't need a Franklin Planner to keep track of it, nor did I have to be obsessed with how many minutes it took me to complete something. I still refuse to be a slave to a calendar book, but I had to get over my habit of just figuring if the job was done by sundown, I was okay. Oddly enough, my superiors at the PD are a bit more exact than that. When the chief says "on my desk by 3:00", he means it. Stuff like that was hard getting used to again. There were days I wanted to throw in the towel and go back to the tribe.

Then I met Carolyn. She was intelligent, talented at her job, confident--and not too hard on the eyes, either. She was in every sense an equal, and it was a real pleasure to work with her on a number of cases at the PD. Maybe I was confusing my enjoyment of her company and my respect for her ability for love. I don't know. In any event, we got married. It was a disaster from the start. I have to admit that I tend to be traditional about marriage--I don't mean I expect a woman to stay home and have babies. One of the main things that attracted me to Carolyn in the first place was seeing her in action on the job. But I guess I wanted to take care of her and provide for her, and I didn't understand--still don't--why calling her "baby" or "sweetheart" pissed her off so much. I thought she knew I respected her as an equal. I always kind of hoped she'd call me something besides "Jimmy". I despise that nickname anyway. What's wrong with "honey"? "Lover"? Something besides "Jimmy".

I'm really getting off-topic here. Maybe there's something to this diary-writing thing. I never really thought too much about all this--never realized it still nagged at me.

Carolyn and I finally called it quits after a couple years of misery. It was better to end it, but it still hurt like hell because it was her idea. The way she did it--man, all she had to do was tell me she wanted a divorce. She didn't have to list off everything she wasn't getting out of our relationship. By the end of the discussion she had me trying to promise her all the things I could do differently or better or whatever. How pathetic is that? I never really stopped to think about the fact that one thing she said was true--we weren't meant to be together, and we weren't cut out to be married to each other. It just seemed like if I admitted that and said "okay", I was admitting to being "cold, unresponsive, insensitive, disinterested, dispassionate, set in my ways, unimaginative in bed...oh, yeah, and uncultured. In other words, a waste of good oxygen. At first, she was just going to tell me that she was unhappy and wanted a divorce. Ever the detective, I had to know "why". Not smart.

When Carolyn divorced me, I threw myself into my job--oh, I forgot--I was "more in love with my work" when I was married. Guess that makes me downright obsessed now. But that job has been my mainstay, and I'm good at it. There are times it isn't much different from holding the border with a bunch of tribesman. As corny as it sounds, there's this "tribe" of cops holding the border against an enemy that comes in a remarkable number of shapes, sizes, ages and walks of life.

Maybe I got so rattled by what started happening to me because it was interfering with my abilities as a cop, and that's about all I've got left that means anything to me.

I was on a stakeout, in a tent, working on a major case. It was similar to being back in the jungle, in that I was on my own, living in primitive conditions, keeping watch. I started noticing things again--hearing things louder, seeing things more clearly and from farther away... Then it seemed like all of a sudden, my senses were attacking me. Noises deafened me, lights almost blinded me...I had dinner with Carolyn and thought the food had been purposely dowsed with an absurd level of spice as some sort of joke--but it was fine when Carolyn checked it. It was like having all my senses on some kind of turbo charge. I lost it and kissed her, right out on the sidewalk in the rain. She informed me that if I had kissed her like that before, we'd still be married. Well, if I had kissed her like that before, without her consent, without warning, in public, in the rain, with lots of tongue, she'd have decked me. I always felt like I needed an appointment with her to get physical. This time, I had to experience what it was like to just indulge that sense of touch and taste right there and then. I felt like I was a slave to my senses.

I've got a news bulletin for her--if kissing her had felt that way when we were married, we'd have never left the house.

What was so bizarre about all this was that I could get so focused on just one sensation that everything else blacked out around it. If it hadn't been for Sandburg, I'd be the hood ornament on a garbage truck right now, thanks to that little problem.

I guess that brings me to explaining how I dealt with this mess. I went to the doctor. Logical. Must be something physiological going on. They ran tests.

While I'm waiting for the results, in strides this confident little guy with a pony tail and glasses trying to tell me he's my doctor. I should have known I was on the edge of insanity when I believed him. Then he gives me a business card and tells me to go see an anthropologist. What's more unbelievable is that I went. By then, I was reaching. The tests showed nothing, my senses were still crazy...I couldn't keep living that way. I had to do something. Going to see Blair Sandburg was a last resort.

I already felt like I was making a colossal mistake when I reached his office and found not a stodgy old professor in a moldy tweed jacket, but the pounding of primal drums and this frizzy-haired guy dancing around like an idiot. It took me a minute to recognize him from the hospital. His hair was out of the pony tail, he was dressed in a white shirt and printed vest, dancing around his office, minus his glasses, babbling on about the Stones or basements in Seattle or something. I almost bolted. If I hadn't been desperate, I would have. Or would I? There was something about him that drew me in, as much as I hated to admit it to myself. I took an inventory of him right then and there. It doesn't take me long to do that, with everything on his heightened level. I made a profile in my mind of his face, his eyes, his hair, his body, his scent--I know this is sounding a little weird, but that's not how I mean it. I just can't help putting people through a sort of on-the-spot inspection when I see them. Plus, when I was in the jungle, I could smell things like fear, and I knew when people were lying to me.

This guy was as nervous as a cat, but he was sincere. So I listened. When he started telling me I was some kind of throwback, I got angry. I was there for help...solutions. And all I was getting was a bunch of anthropological bullshit. So I grabbed him and slammed him against the wall. Looking back, it was a fairly shitty thing to do since he's a head shorter and a hell of a lot lighter than I am. But he's a spunky one. He looked a little panicky, but he didn't back down either. When I cooled off enough to realize that I really didn't have the right to come into his office and rough him up, I let go of him. And the more he talked, the more I listened. But it all still seemed too damned academic. I needed practical solutions. Furthermore, I don't want to be somebody's guinea pig. The last thing I want is to be Cascade's answer to the Elephant Man, with Sandburg in his straw hat, bringing in the circus crowds to see his freak.

He was still babbling about something when I took off out of there. I already felt like I'd made a mistake going there in the first place. I didn't want him chasing me across the grounds hollering about my problem.

One minute I was watching some kids throwing a frisbee, the next minute, I was on my face under a moving garbage truck with Sandburg. Then he was up and pacing around carrying on about it. I was wondering how long I could live with that energy level. I still have days where I'd still like to slip a valium in his herbal tea just to settle him down a little.

I guess seeing that I was as out of control as I was, I felt like I had no choice but to trust him, since he seemed to be the only one who understood what was wrong with me and thought he had an answer for it. Not a cure, but a way to control it.

I never would have pictured working with Sandburg as something good for my police career. I still don't have a clue how to get him past Simon. But he's teaching me how to channel my heightened senses to look for clues--I never would have thought of using my enhanced eyesight to shoot a bullet into someone else's gun. But Sandburg's gotten me thinking the right way to handle this. I still don't feel like I have a 100% grip on it or anything, but I don't feel as frantic as I did. I think it's conquerable.

The kid's decent back up, and he can help me get this thing with my senses under control--he tells me I'm a "Sentinel". He's got volumes of ratty-looking notes, old books and neatly-typed papers about this sentinel thing. The point is, it's a major relief to have someone else to talk to who doesn't think I'm nuts. Suddenly, it seems like my career isn't destined for the toilet, and I don't feel like I'm losing my mind. That by itself is everything.

Entry #2

I told him not to use that damn "thin blue line" thing. What does he do first chance he gets? You guessed it. I pity this kid's parents. Or maybe I blame them. He's never heard of doing as he's told. He's late a lot, and he never shuts up. Furthermore, he thinks he knows everything--and what's a damn sight more annoying than that is that he almost does. I've never seen anybody know so much about so many things. But then I've never known too many geniuses, and for all his quirks, this guy is one.

So why was I so worried about him when all that shit went down at the station? He's only been around a couple of weeks, but he's helped me a lot in that time. Part of it is that I feel responsible for him. People talk about ride-a-longs with the cops like it's no big deal. It's a very big deal. Or it should be. When you take an unarmed civilian into your realm of armed criminals and armed cops and high speed chases and potential disasters like these, it's a damned huge responsibility. And Sandburg, who hates guns and violence and belongs in the quiet halls of a university library, trusts me to watch out for him in my world. The first time something major happens, and he's in danger, he's alone. God, I felt guilty about that. I would have never left him there if I thought there was anything dangerous about it, but he was in the middle of a whole building full of police personnel. This has never happened in Cascade. In most cities. But it had to happen here, now.

There was no way I was letting Kincaid get away. Going for that helicopter was a little over the edge, but not only was the lunatic getting away, he had Sandburg with him. It would be a pretty sure bet he'd kill him and dump him when he'd served his purpose.

I've got to hand it to him. For an anthropologist, he's a pretty decent cop in a tight situation. He kicked Kincaid out of the helicopter--and though I wouldn't have chosen to have him swinging from my legs, it beat getting my head blown off.

It was kind of a relief in one way dropping the kid off at his place. I was tired, and all I wanted to do was go home and crash. He was all wound up tight and ready to go all night. He seemed disappointed that I wouldn't go out for a beer with him, but I'm sure he's got tons of friends at the university he can dig up to go pub crawling. I outgrew that scene a few years ago.

It's funny. He wears me out when he's around, but for some damn reason, I miss him when he isn't. I guess I miss having someone to talk freely to--I can't exactly publicize this thing with my senses. He's got a real manner about him--a way of lighting up when he sees me. He probably does that naturally. He's a people person. And he did say I was his thesis on feet. For an egghead like Sandburg, that's probably the ultimate turn-on.

Entry #3

Sometimes I still can't believe Danny's dead. You know, I didn't see him as much as I should have anymore. People mature, grow up, grow apart... Danny had his own life, and a busy one. He went into the academy, then decided to go for his degree. I was so proud of him for making that choice. Danny was always smart, and he could be a good student with his eyes closed. Carrying a "B" average in high school was nothing special to him. It was just what happened naturally. So when he died, he was only two semesters away from his bachelor's degree. All those hours studying...and for what? Now that lively young brain is rotting six feet under.

Death really has no mercy. I guess I should have learned that by now. When my mother died, I was too little to really figure it all out. I just knew she wasn't there anymore. And that seemed pretty merciless. She was young, pretty...and she was my mom. If death could take her away just like that...shit, it couldn't have any mercy.

I lost it in the alley. Danny's blood was oozing out of him. His life was running out on the cement in the rain, and somewhere in the shadows was the son of a bitch who did it. I was so...I don't know...I was overwhelmed. If I'd been thinking, maybe I could have gone after Juno right then.

When I saw that damned red dot heading right for Blair, it hit me pretty hard how much I've come to depend on him. I yelled for him to get down, and he did, but he made his way over to me right away. Like always, he was there to help. I know he does most of what he does for his dissertation, but that night, he was really there for me. I don't remember everything that happened, but I know he was there, making me accept Danny's death, and then trying his best to calm me down, which couldn't have been easy. I know I made it hard for him, but he hung right in there. By the time the other units were arriving, I had my act marginally together. Thanks to Blair, I didn't make an ass out of myself in front of all my colleagues.

He tried to offer to come over or spend time with me that night, but I brushed him off. Truth be told, I was embarrassed. I don't like to put on big emotional scenes, and that had been a whopper. I wanted to get away from him as fast as possible. Then I had a beer with Beverly, which lasted a whole fulfilling ten minutes. If that. She took one sip of beer, I said two or three sentences about Danny, and she got up to leave. I guess I would have been better off with Sandburg. I really felt that way when my hearing and taste just...shorted out. I thought about calling him, but he'd have run me through paces of tests and experiments, and I didn't have anything left to give anyone by then. So I went to bed and finally dropped into a sort of stupor that's somewhere between sleeping and waking.

We nailed the Juno brothers. I say "we" because Blair really hung in there with me. He didn't have to be part of my illegal wire-tap operation, but he stood by me. He kept me from dismembering Juno on the courthouse steps, which was no small item. He's turning into one of the best friends I've ever had. But I have to keep remembering that when his dissertation is finished, he's history. Getting too used to him being around is kind of pointless.

It's been almost a month since Danny died. Blair visited the cemetery with me after we nailed Juno. He brought flowers. I didn't think of that. They were hyacinths, and he told me some story about a mythical god whose blood spilled and flowers grew...I wish I could remember the legend now. It was beautiful at the time. I'll have to ask him sometime. Maybe at dinner. I told him I'd treat tonight, and I'm going to be late if I don't get moving. I came up with something related to my senses to ask him as an excuse to drag him back out for dinner tonight. Couldn't very well tell him I was just lonely and wanted to hear the flower story again.

Entry #4

Only Sandburg could live next door to a drug lab and not suspect anything. If it were anyone else, I'd be suspicious that he was one of their customers. But there he is in this God-awful neighborhood, all by himself in a drafty old warehouse, wearing gloves while he watches TV, studying monkeys. And while he's taking notes on Larry the ape, the guys next door are manufacturing enough junk to keep the street trade up and running.

The first thing that crossed my mind when I showed up there with the video camera he'd asked to borrow was that he wasn't going to get by long living there alone. I've known right along he lived in a rough area, but maybe I didn't think about it...or care...until now. Maybe it's because he rides with me that I feel so damned...protective of him. Maybe because he's smaller. I don't know. He's no sissy. He can take care of himself. It's not like he needs me to play daddy to him.

I still can't believe sometimes that I was so thoroughly enjoying watching TV, sharing a bowl of popcorn with Sandburg and a small ape.

After the explosion, and when some of the furor of police procedure was winding down, I went to check on Sandburg. There he was, loading everything he could fit into his car. It was like a four-wheel equivalent of the rag tied to the end of a stick. When he started asking about staying with me, it was hard to keep refusing him. It was hard not to offer in the first place. Ape notwithstanding, the idea of having that warm, loyal little bundle of energy camping out in my drafty barn of a loft was pretty appealing. But it was only temporary, and he would be off and running again. I didn't want to let myself in for the adjustment from companionship to living alone. I didn't make it real smoothly after Carolyn left, but I made it. I don't want to do that again. The whole damned relationship with Sandburg unnerves me. I need to be careful not to get too attached to him. This is only a temporary thing.

I came downstairs the next morning after he'd stayed over, and he was cooking breakfast. It smelled like coffee and eggs and toast, and there was somebody there chattering away. Much nicer way to wake up than coming downstairs and eating a stale bagel by myself. I teased him about courtship rituals. I don't know where the hell that remark came from. Except for the fact that as good a cook as he is, if Sandburg had boobs, I'd probably marry him.

I'm glad things worked out all right for Gaines. He's a good guy. We all need to slow down and learn a little when we're young and starting out. He's no different. I think he finally understands that nothing that goes down under Simon's command has anything to do with color, either way.

I did get a kick out of watching Sandburg carve out his own little niche among all those elderly people. How did this conversation get back to him again anyway?

I didn't get a kick out of what Larry did to the loft.

Entry #5

Every time I think I've seen it all, something comes along that's even weirder than what I'm used to. Lash was one of those "somethings". What was so remarkably dangerous about this guy was his ability to fit in. We were all awed by his expertise as he helped us track the killer, and then he turns out to be committing the murders and feeding the press himself.

I never honestly believed that Blair would shoot off his mouth to the press. I know he's not a cop, but he's far from stupid. His antics at the church didn't help matters, but I really wasn't angry with the kid. He's inexperienced with this stuff and he thought he was helping. I know he felt responsible for Lash getting away, and ultimately, he was the one who paid for that mistake.

When Simon suggested I should "cut him loose", something inside of me twisted. I can't. Frankly, that scares the hell out of me. I didn't want him to move in because I didn't want this to happen. I didn't want to depend on him. To need him in any emotional way. I know I need help with this Sentinel thing, and I'm grateful for all the zillions of little things he comes up with to help me live with my senses, control them, and often put them to optimum use in the field. But I didn't want to need him emotionally. I haven't had good luck with that. Everyone I ever needed, I've had to let go. So I've pretty much resolved not to do that anymore. But Blair didn't take no for an answer. He moved in, but he did more than that. He just adds so much by...being there. He fills a void I didn't think I'd ever have filled again.

He handled himself with Lash like a real pro. He was in a hopeless situation, but he kept the maniac talking. And he had enough spirit to get right in Lash's face even though he thought he was going to die. I don't know if I'd have handled it as well as he did or not. Most of the tight situations I've been in haven't been quite that hopeless. But being bound in chains, in an empty warehouse, with a deranged serial killer is about as hopeless as it gets.

I followed their voices, and when I saw that bastard trying to force something down Blair's throat, I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. When I eventually did kill Lash, it was necessary. I had no choices. But pumping five bullets into somebody never made me feel relief before. Sure, you're relieved when you're out of danger, but killing another human being isn't something I generally feel good about. When I looked down at his dead face, and thought about what he'd put Blair through--the full extent of which I didn't even know yet--and that he was planning to kill him...it was all I could do not to smile. Maybe that makes me a throwback just like Blair said I was. But I think of the nutty professor as one of my own now, and I take care of my own.

When I got back to Blair, he was a little out of it, but he rallied fast. When he figured out I wasn't Lash, he got this pained expression on his face, and I knew he was working hard not to break down in front of me. I went to work on the chains, trying to keep up a reassuring dialogue while I did it. I told him Lash was dead, it was over--things like that.

I pulled him out of the chair and supported him. I knew he needed to get his land legs back, and he was a little woozy from the drugs. I let myself feel the impact of how scared I had been of losing him. I had pushed that down the whole time I worked at rescuing him, because the magnitude of the feeling blindsided me. I didn't know he meant that much to me. I knew he meant more to me than I wanted him to. But not that much.

He was exhausted, and he needed to let go. I pulled him into my arms and held him close to me, rubbing his back and trying to reassure him that it was okay to let it out. That everything was safe now, and that I was there to look out for him and that it was okay to lean on me. The tears finally let loose, and he cried for a long time while I held him. I know he was scared, but the drug was also removing a lot of his inhibitions.

It felt way too good to have that warm body clinging to me. I let myself experience Blair completely in that few minutes. I opened up my senses, took in his scent, his temperature, the feeling of his skin and muscles and bones, the soft texture of his hair, the sound of his heartbeat and breathing and his crying. That's when I felt the nipple ring. I knew that would get him if I brought that up later. I smiled at the thought. He was alive, okay, in my arms and coming home with me. He'd be healthy and alive and around the next day to joke with. He'd be there to fix breakfast and listen with that intent expression when I talked and mess up the loft and leave the bathroom smelly and worry about me and give me that big smile of his...

By the time Blair stopped crying, I was as afraid as he was when he was with Lash. I realized that the warm armload snuggling against me was the most important thing in my life. I felt things for him that I hadn't felt for anyone--not even Carolyn. Blair's smart and capable and independent, but he still needs me sometimes. And it's nice to be needed. He needs me and I need him. He fills up the lonely void and he...shit, I can't believe I have to quote Debbie Boone. I am as pathetic as I think. But he "lights up my life". There, I said it. I think my next move ought to be burning this journal. It's looking more and more like a junior high girl's diary every day.

I took Blair to the hospital, over all his protests, so they could check him out. I wanted to be sure the drug wasn't toxic, and I also wanted to know for sure than Lash hadn't done anything else to him he wasn't telling me about.

Once he'd pulled himself together at the scene, Blair was trying to keep up his usual chatter, though it was a little slowed by the drug and his fatigue. I spent most of the time cursing myself for that speech I had given him on learning to detach and distance himself. The poor kid didn't feel like he could let down his defenses and react at all. I could hear every other system in his body screaming out its stress while he was forcing an occasional smile and prattling on. What I told him held true for a cop in the field--or for someone working with cops. But it didn't mean I was going to think less of him for being afraid or traumatized.

It didn't surprise me that about two hours after we parted company to go to bed, I heard him screaming. It took some doing to bring him out of the nightmare. He did his best to get away from me, and I have to hand it to him, he almost succeeded a couple of times. I hated to scare him more, but I had to nail him down long enough to bring him around. When he woke up, he was shaking like crazy and crying, not really in control of himself at all. I took him in my arms again and sat there rocking him while he cried and told me little fragments about Lash and his nightmare.

It's been a long time since I held someone I loved close like that. I felt sorry for him that he was having nightmares, but at the same time, I buried my nose in all those soft curls and relished the warm weight of him nestled against me. It's one thing to hold a woman after you've had sex--not that I've really had dozens in my bed since Carolyn, but there have been a couple. But when you have a good physical thing going, sometimes you do the holding thing because you know it's expected. Instead of rolling over and sleeping off the action, you cuddle. But it's something else to hold someone in your arms because they need you and because you love them. God, when did I start loving him? What the hell am I going to do when he's done studying me? How am I going to live in this place alone when he's gone?

Sometimes I get angry at Sandburg. I want to yell at him and ask him where he thinks he gets off making me feel this way about him when he's just using me for a study subject. I know I can't do that, but it just wells up sometimes and then I snap his head off about something and then get a look at those big sad eyes and feel like a giant asshole. And sometimes when I look at those eyes, I see something beyond academic interest in them. It's like I see a reflection of what I feel. But then he mentions some other curvy co-ed he's been with and I wonder if I'm crazy for even toying with...with what? What is it exactly I'm toying with? And what in hell does loving my best friend have to do with being jealous of his sex partners? Is that what I am? Jealous?

I think I just need to get out more--"get a life" so to speak.

The nightmares were almost a nightly occurrence for a while, but they seem to be getting better now. Blair doesn't say anything about Lash when he's awake, so I know that's why it keeps popping out at night.

Looking back over this entry, and this whole thing with Lash, I know I've got a problem. How in the hell am I going to handle it when he packs up his backpack and says "It's been real, man", collects his doctorate and moves to some remote third world country to live among the natives? I'm not going to handle it. It's going to rip my guts out. And I only have myself to blame for letting him get to me this way.

Entry #6

Just when I think I've found a reason to get pissed off at Blair, he turns around and tells me he's doing it for me. I don't get sick often, but when I do, I feel lousy. And my mood matches it. So while I was staggering around the loft in my robe, nursing a major cold, the sound of tribal jungle music or whatever it was really put me on edge.

Blair was working on clearing my sinuses.

The next thing that pissed me off was whatever the stinky pan of weeds was he had on the stove.

Oh, those were for me too. The music did nothing but make my head pound, and what I could smell of the pan of weeds made my eyes water, but it's the thought that counts.

The evening went from bad to worse, and I ended up spending most of it swinging from the bottom of a moving train, high on cold medicine. Really. The only reason I'm not dead is because I got a hold of myself enough to think back on some of the work Blair had done with me on zeroing in on one of my senses and blocking out the others. The lights were killing my eyes, driving me nuts, distracting me from everything else. Once I learned to block that out and concentrate on touch and hearing (though not as acutely, because the underside of a train isn't exactly a quiet place), I was able to make my way to the back to hop on the train right-side up again. Then I came to and punched a doctor. As far as I know, a terse letter to the chief was the worst that came of that little error.

I hated to leave Blair holding the bag--or the gun, as it were. I don't know if he could seriously look another human being in the eyes and then kill him. Our options were a little limited though. It seemed like everything that could go wrong, did. Of course, I could have gotten caught under the train, so I guess not everything that could go wrong, did.

For all his remedies and witch doctor routines, Blair ended up with my cold a few days after mine got better. I felt kind of guilty. I know I sneezed all over him all the time. He had a lot coming together at the university and we were busy on a couple of cases, and I felt really sorry for him. He won't take the over-the-counter stuff, and when he came staggering out of his room with a flushed face and 103 fever the other morning, I informed him he was calling in sick. I literally had to pry the backpack out of his hand, turn him around and shove him back into his room.

I had one day of feeling really horrible and running a fever when I had my version of it, but looking back, I had Blair cooking for me and running to the pharmacy for my prescription (I don't have any problem with artificial substances to knock illness) and pumping fluids into me. When it was his turn, Blair was still keeping up his schedule at the university, tagging along with me on one particularly cold, rainy day and then sitting around the station with wet hair and damp clothes for the rest of the afternoon. Nobody was fussing over him to keep warm or lie down or take it easy. It was a wonder he wasn't hospitalized, now that I think about it.

He almost died of shock when I went back in his room with a basin of water and a washcloth and a pitcher of ice water. He was stunned that I, too, called in and was working at home for the day, and even more flabbergasted that I planned to work on bringing his fever down in a completely natural way, just like he wanted but was too sick to do for himself.

The sponging off and great quantities of ice water finally got the fever down by early evening. He really unnerved me getting that sick. He finally told me he used to get really sick when he was little and caught a cold. That information would have been helpful before I sneezed in his face a half dozen times and then just the previous day had dragged him all over Cascade in the pouring rain and then let him sit around wet while he was already running a fever. As usual, he'd die before he'd "wimp out" on me, especially in front of the other guys at work.

I have to admit, somewhat guiltily, that I enjoyed the time we spent together that day. He was quieter, more introspective, and all we had to do to pass the time was talk, since he was in bed and I was sitting there trying to cool him down. We covered a lot of ground. I learned some things about his life, his attitudes. And as usual, I spilled my guts a lot more than I planned to. I think Blair could get a life history out of the Sphinx.

Entry #7

Blair's sitting a few feet away, grading papers. He could be home doing that, but instead he's been here with me all day, helping to put the reports on the Brackett mess together. And now, after midnight, he's working at the end of my desk, adding his familiar little clutter to my otherwise pristine and perfectly organized work space. He'll feel my eyes drilling holes into him pretty soon if I don't stop staring at him from behind the monitor.

I just finished typing up the last of the report, and sent out a couple of e-mails, thanking some people who consulted on the case. Mainly, they just offered opinions which didn't do a hell of a lot, but you never know when you'll need someone's expertise in the future. Now I'm doing this. He's so damned engrossed in those papers that he hasn't noticed yet it's past midnight and we're the last two here. His eyes'll be bloodshot as hell, and he'll probably doze off on me halfway home. He's been up since dawn, putting together notes for his lecture this morning. The class met at 8:00, and since he'd been so tied up wit me and this case, he'd had absolutely zero time to work on that. So he put in a full work day by the time he joined me here after lunch. And now he's put in an eleven-hour day with me. He hasn't asked me a "Sentinel question" all day. He's just been here for me.

I didn't know I was staring at him with a sappy smile on my face until he looked up and smiled back.

"You look tired," I said. He does. He looks exhausted. He just kept smiling.

"We got a lot done today. Pretty much wrapped up the Brackett paperwork."

"I'm almost done. You want to get a bite to eat?"

"Can we take it home?"

"Sure. I'll just finish up here and we'll get going."

And so I'm back to this briefly. What all that means is that we'll stop at a drive-thru window, get a bag of take-outs, he'll sleep the rest of the way home and then rally long enough to eat part of his with me and then crawl into bed.

Lee Brackett did drive one point home to me that I've really known all along. Sandburg can't ever publish this dissertation. I didn't care at first. I needed help, so I figured I'd take it and worry about stifling him later. But his whole life is tied up in this dream of getting his Ph.D. I'm not sure just what to do about this. If I tell him that, tell him he can't study me anymore and can't publish what he's got, he'll pack his things and leave. And I wouldn't blame him. To tell him he'd wasted the last several months of his life would probably piss him off. It would piss me off if I were in his position.

God, it's more despicable to keep this going when I know he can't publish. Or can he? Is it worth it to me to keep him around now and let him have his dissertation and then deal with the consequences? Just one lunatic who got his hands on some old papers Blair had written ended up forcing me to help him steal an airplane. What in the hell is going to come next? Then there's the exhibition factor--do I hear circus music, or is that just my imagination?

Entry #8

I've never had a more miserable dinner in my life. It wasn't Drennan's fault. She's good company. We actually could have had an interesting conversation if I hadn't had one ear on Blair all evening. He didn't join us for dinner. Maya arrived right before we ate. I knew it was going to be a disaster. And in a way, it's all my fault.

I heard their conversation. I try to be ethical about this heightened hearing thing, but I couldn't help it. I had the feeling the kid was going to get hurt in a big way, and I couldn't tune it out. She dumped him. Royally. Did she have to tell him she hated him? I don't know. Kind of reminds me of Carolyn in a way. You can tell someone you don't want them anymore without twisting the knife. Why do people do that to each other? Is that a woman thing, I wonder? I've never been dumped by a man, but speaking from my occasional experience as the "dump-or", I've always tried to make it gentle--polite if possible. But like Carolyn when she left, Maya had to leave plenty of damage behind her. His helpless little "I love you" tore at my heart. He really did fall hard for her. I felt sorry for him and at the same time I wanted to tell him (from experience) "get a little dignity because throwing yourself at her feet isn't going to gain you anything but scuff marks on your ass when she's done wiping them there".

She left, slithering out quietly. She looked a bit uneasy when she passed me, as if she expected me to say or do something. I wanted to tell her not to let the door hit her in the ass on the way out. I refrained. I have to quit being so overly defensive of Blair. He's a grown man. He can fight his own battles.

I didn't know what to do with him. If we'd been alone, I'd have gone in there and tried to make him feel a little better. Talked to him a while. Held him while he cried if he'd let me. Judging by his contrite attitude and embarrassment at having fallen in love with her while doing undercover snooping for me, he probably didn't want to share his tears with anyone. Least of all me.

So I tried to draw him out. I thought maybe he'd be able to pull out of it with a distraction. But he didn't. So I pushed my food around while I listened to him crying in there by himself. It wasn't audible to Drennan. I turned on the stereo after I left Blair. He doesn't have a hell of a lot of privacy with a curtain between him and the kitchen. I figured if he broke down, he deserved a little dignity when he was done.

She left early, convinced the evening was a disaster and we were incompatible. We were sickeningly polite at her departure. I knew I'd never see her again. That should have bothered me, because she was attractive and I liked her. But if I'm looking to feel for a woman what I feel for Blair, I'm going to get intimate with my right hand for a long time to come. See--that's what bothers me. I'm not gay. I never have been. I'm not against it or anything, it's just not my preference. I've always noticed a nice figure, long legs, a shapely ass or a nice set of boobs. Like any other normal guy. I've never evaluated other men's equipment. I figure they don't have anything I haven't got--just a different version of it. So where's the lure?

Maybe that's what's wrong. I'm used to being attracted to someone and then building feelings for them after that. I have all the right feelings for Blair, but I'm not gay. The sex thing just isn't happening. I don't foresee it happening, even if he was willing. I mean, as guys go, I like the way he looks and the way he smells, and how warm and complete I feel on the rare times I hold him in my arms. But I haven't had to fight against ravishing him on the floor or anything. But the absence of all those warm feelings when I approach an attractive woman is making it so damned hollow that I don't care if I ever lay eyes on her again, let alone whether or not I get her into bed.

Blair wasn't crying by the time Drennan left. He wasn't asleep either. So I cleaned up the dishes and put things away and then went into his room and sat on the bed. He was playing dead, but I knew better. I laid a hand on his shoulder and told him it would get better. It does, eventually. It's like a death. When it first happens you feel wiped out, but slowly, you struggle your way back and rebuild. You just don't picture it happening when you're hurting so much.

"It's my own fault," was his almost inaudible reply. I rubbed his shoulder a little.

"Doesn't make it hurt any less, pal. Besides, I put you in that situation to start. I'm not blameless either."

"I'm sorry I screwed up the whole thing."

"It was because of you that Maya tipped us off. You didn't screw anything up, Chief." I could hear him working to control new tears. I knew I should at least let him have his pain privately, if that's what he wanted. He had clung to me when he needed me before. Maybe this time he just needed to work through it, and wanted privacy. "How's your head?" I gently tugged on one of the wavy sections of hair.

"Hurts."

"Want some aspirin?"

"No."

"Okay then." I patted his shoulder and got up, starting for the door. His voice stopped me.

"When?"

"When what?"

"When does it get better?"

"Soon, buddy. You'll see."

"Okay. G'night, Jim."

"See you in the morning, Chief."

I went upstairs. I wanted nothing more than to go to him and hold him and make him feel better. I hate seeing him hurt in any way. Instead, I went upstairs. I had to start backing off a little and he obviously needed some privacy.

I still have to laugh when I think about him nailing those guys out in the street with that fire hose. I guess brains will step in nicely for brawn in a tight situation. He accomplished what the cops couldn't--just because he was smart enough to try it.

The car insurance guy is probably going to hassle him. Whether he wants me there or not, I'll go with him. I'm sure we can reach some reasonable agreement.

Entry #9

Well, I certainly know the old equipment still works. And all my concerns about not getting turned on by women can be laid to rest. Somewhat. I still don't fully understand this "thing" that just happened. But from the first time I laid eyes on Laura, I was so turned on I couldn't see straight. I wanted her then and there. Shit, I'd have done her on the pool table if I could have.

I should have known it wasn't going to work. Cheap pick-ups in bars usually don't. But it was a decent bar, with a nice clientele. And Sandburg decided I should get out more and meet people. Is that a subtle hint? Does he feel like I'm sniffing around after him all the time? Maybe he's testing me to see if I'm het or if I'm thinking about jumping his bones.

I guess if it's the "het test", I passed. Big time. She was as excited about me (I thought) as I was about her. We were all over each other. I never had sex that intense, and I never cut loose and used a woman wild and hard that way. She loved it. The rougher I got, the better she liked it. She kept goading me on to "make her scream". I think we did it three times during the night.

Normally, I would say that sex alone wouldn't sustain a relationship. If I could have sex like that anytime I wanted it, I might reconsider. Of course, we'd both be dead in a couple years, tops.

So why did I worry if Sandburg seemed to look hurt that I'd stayed out all night and that I was so turned on by this woman I couldn't see straight? Maybe mind-blowing sex just gets you in a horny frame of mind. Maybe that's why I stood there and assessed those big blue eyes, the full lips, how impossibly cute he looks when he's in one of his studious modes. Hair pulled back, glasses in place, deathly serious expression on his face. I try not to think of Blair in diminutive terms. He's short, but that doesn't make him stupid, weak, incompetent or less of a man. He doesn't deserve to be evaluated as some "cute little guy" when he's got the brains he's got, and he's able to handle some major situations as well as he does.

But I can't help it. He is a cute little guy, and I had the most overpowering urge to throw him on the bed and kiss him senseless. I chalked it up to my libido being stuck in overdrive and my mind translating everything into sexual terms. So I brushed him off, and pushed aside any thoughts of him in that way. When my hormones--pheromones--whatever--settled down, so would I. Actually, letting my animal urges drive my behavior was kind of...liberating. I just picked up the message she was giving off and went for it. Part of me wanted to stuff a sock in Sandburg's mouth before he could say something to break the spell.

I shouldn't have been surprised that everything fell apart. The only problem is that I'm in this frenzied state and have no one to work it out on. Is that why I'm taking an inordinate interest in Sandburg bending over to dig around in the refrigerator? Yep, that's gotta be it. I guess writing this entry out long-hand here at home wasn't such a hot idea. I'm spending most of my time checking out my roommate's ass, speculating on how it would feel to get a hold of him, slide those jeans down and grab handfuls of ass, kneading and stroking. How would he look on his back with his legs apart?

Shit, Ellison. Blair deserves a hell of a lot better than that. You leering at him and figuring out how it would feel to grope his ass and nail him to the mattress. Just because this disaster left you with a bunch of unsatisfied urges doesn't give you the right to use him--without his knowledge, even--to create a bunch of sexual fantasies in your head.

"Hungry?" Blair asked. He was standing there innocently in the middle of the kitchen, eating an apple. He figured I was staring at him because I wanted food. //No thanks, Sandburg. I'd rather have you naked on your back. I want your ass, not your apple. Thanks anyway.//

"No, I'm fine."

"Still feeling a little down?" He joined me at the table. The glasses and the ponytail. So help me God, he is cute when wears those glasses.

"I'll get over it." //Dammit. He just showered and washed his hair an hour or so ago. Smells good too.// I felt really guilty by now for what I had been thinking, and I didn't realize I'd said "I'm sorry" out loud. He looked puzzled. "For not taking your opinions on this very seriously at first," I recovered. He smiled a little, seemed pleased.

"That's okay. I know you couldn't help it."

Then he started turning the apple around in those long fingers while he was thinking. He raised one finger up and licked apple juice off it. Does he have to be so damned sexy without even trying? I've seen a lot of women very calculatedly suck a finger, lick their lips--various little sensuous moves. And they look artificial. But Blair is genuine. If he's licking his finger, it isn't for effect. It's because he has apple juice on it. Wonder how he'd react if I grabbed his wrist and said, "here, let me help you with that". Scratch that. I know how he'd react. He'd sit there and let me do it.

Hot water isn't a problem at the moment. Blair has all he needs. I've been taking cold showers for a week. Probably will be for a while. Whatever this pheromone thing is, it's powerful. My motor's ready to start up at the slightest little stimulus.

Entry #10

Talk about moving from the sublime to the ridiculous. I've been away from this writing project for a little while--which seems to have been a good idea, judging from the direction the last entry was taking. But what I was really talking about was going from spending most of my free time thinking about my sex life (or lack of same) to spending my vacation at a monastery.

Scratch all those syrupy things I said about Sandburg. The only thing I'd like to do with his ass is kick it right now. I know he meant well, and that's the only reason I didn't leave him with the monks. If he thinks it's so damn cool to spend a vacation with no television, phones, sports or recreational activities, he should try living in the jungle for eighteen months. I certainly am more than familiar with the value of solitude and meditation--though none of it involved incense or strange primordial chants in my case. I spent a lot of time alone, prowling around the jungle like an animal, and quite frankly, unless it's coupled with fishing or hiking or some other worthwhile activity, spending my vacation away from the modern conveniences is not a big treat. Having some overzealous monk wake me up at 5 AM swinging on a bell and then doing nothing all day is not a vacation. If I wanted to get up at dawn and spend the day unable to do anything I wanted, I'd have stayed at home and gone to work.

Having vented that hostility, I am glad we were able to help the guys at St. Sebastian's. They're good people--I know that sounds like a statement of the obvious with monks, but what I mean is, they're very human, very kind people. They're people, not strange, other-worldly beings with pained expressions on their faces like you see in the religious paintings. These are guys who left regular lives--acting, sales, administration--to devote themselves to God. I couldn't do that. I don't have what it takes. I bet any one of them could hack the army. They have enormous strength of character. But it takes another kind of strength to put yourself completely at the end of the list--God's number one and everyone and everything else seems to fill in the other slots.

At any rate, everything ended pretty well. The monastery lost a couple of members, but that was almost inevitable under the circumstances. I'm just glad we were able to stop it before more had to die. Still, it's a real loss when one of those guys die. They're a rare breed to begin with. Of course, they feel they're going somewhere better. To a reward. That we're the ones suffering here on earth. I like to think that. It means my mother went to a better place when she died so damned young--and if that's true, and she's happy...well, it does make it a little less grim.

Simon is promising me more vacation time again soon. I worked through this one, and then a major case landed in our laps, and the chance to extend this one went out the window.

Blair apologized left and right for screwing up my vacation. I don't know why I can't stay mad at that guy for more than thirty seconds. He looks up at me with those big eyes and that expression with just a hint of fear that I'm going to really come down on him...like I ever have. Or would. I can't keep up a healthy tongue-lashing at him, let alone really bawl him out. I tease Blair about his tendency to stretch the truth, but he's really very genuine when it comes to his emotions. They play out on his face instantly. And any time I've really snapped at him, I see a little flash of hurt that's usually sufficient to make me feel guilty as hell for about three hours afterwards.

So I let him off the hook pretty easily, and told him next trip was my choice. He brightened up all of a sudden, and asked if I really meant he could go along. I said sure, I was planning on it. He just beamed about it, and then said he figured I'd be mad that he'd screwed up my time off and wouldn't want him along again. He also said he'd go anywhere and do anything I wanted. Well, we'll see about that...

Entry #11

I seriously considered scrapping this whole diary project after the last several days. So much has happened that I don't know where to start to explain it.

Simon took Daryl to Peru for a conference. I thought it would be a great experience for the kid when he first mentioned it, and of course Blair was just exploding with all these suggestions of places they had to see while they were there. Little did any of us know what they would end up stepping into.

Then Blair knocks the legs right out from under me. He has the chance to go to Borneo to study, under the supervision of his mentor, a guy he informs me is one of the most prominent anthropologists in the world. I've never heard of him, but then to me, Blair is the most prominent anthropologist in the world. He's the only anthropologist I can name.

I thought he was talking a few weeks, maybe even a month or two, since it was a long trip. He comes out of nowhere telling me that it's going to be at least a year. I could see he was excited about going. I also know he felt obligated to me. So I tried to cut the ties for him pretty fast. I pulled back my inclination to really make a sap out of myself and ask him how in the hell I was supposed to keep my act together without a guide. What I really wanted to ask him was how I was going to face living in this place alone again, eating alone, vacationing alone, riding around alone...I felt so frantic inside that I wanted to scream at him not to go. Pull him into my arms and hang on and tell him I needed him too much to be without him now. Because for Sandburg, that year's separation probably would have marked the end of our relationship. He would have gained notoriety from his involvement in that, and probably found a better dissertation subject and gone on without me.

I didn't have time for a lot of misery and self-pity. We got the distress call about Simon right on the heels of the job discussion.

I know I was snapping at Blair, being unnecessarily abrupt with him. But I had to move my focus away from him. I had to start detaching. And it was going to be a damn tough process. But Blair didn't go along with that. He seemed to cling to me more tenaciously than ever. The more I pried him away and pushed him back, the harder he hung on. The poor kid never jumped out of a plane before, but he did it just to stick with me. Screamed all the way down, got stuck in a tree, fell out and ended up with a lizard in his shorts, but he survived it. Then he dusted himself off and followed me.

Blair was a big help to me, and all along, he was trying to reaffirm that we were partners. Why? It was all going to end in a matter of days anyway.

The first night there I had a dream. It was bizarre. Images of a panther, me chasing it through the jungle...Blair helped me work through the symbolism, to see it as an animal spirit guide. I did follow the panther in my next dream, and it presented me with the choice of being a sentinel and taking the leap or giving it all up. I chose to take the leap. I don't know why. I guess because deep in my heart, I knew it was the only thing that might drag Blair back to me when he was done traipsing around Borneo. Wrestling all these hyperactive senses alone wouldn't be my choice. This "gift" is a bizarre mix of agony and ecstasy.

Sometimes I still don't understand how we managed to get Simon and Daryl out of that camp alive. It was a hellish battle, gunfire everywhere. I didn't know how many I was hitting or when they'd hit me or the truck. I was never so relieved as I was to step off that plane on American soil. Well, almost never. I still had the issue of Blair's impending departure to face.

It was a real battle to force the words out to bring up the subject, to urge him to call back and give them an answer. I knew what it was going to be. I was totally unprepared for his response. He told me he was turning it down, and that he understood now that this whole thing went beyond a thesis--that it was "about friendship".

If I had said anything to that, I would have spilled my guts. So I just smiled at him. I wanted to grab him and hug him and thank him for being in my life and staying there. I wanted to tell him how afraid I was of losing him. And then I thought of what that would all sound like, and how a free spirit like Blair would feel about being smothered that way. So I kept quiet. But I was never so happy in my life.

Continued in part two.