CASUALTIES OF WAR
by fyresong
COMPLETED 11/11/00
FEEDBACK: a_sayyar2118@hotmail.com
TEASER/STORY DESCRIPTION: Who does Blair know in San Diego? Will Jim ever find the
mop? And does AT&T or MCI have the best state to state call rates?
ARCHIVE: Cascade Library, Guide Posts. Everyone else please ask.
TIME LINE/CATEGORY: Post Sentinel Too part 2. Alternate Universe, or more accurately,
veering from cannon. Part 1 of a longer series?
RATING: PGish? I have swear words in this. Be warned! No violence. Not yet anyway. tee
hee!
DISCLAIMER: No major plot-lines, characters, setting, or major events alluded to in this story
are mine in any way. Pet Fly, UPN, and Paramount own these guys. Some of the dialogue is
pulled straight from the TV show for the sake of continuity, and is thus logically NOT mine. No
money is being made off this story. Please ask author before reproducing or posing anywhere else.
NOTES: The first two episodes of The Sentinel I ever saw were Sentinel Too parts 1 and 2. It
seems only fitting that the story I first post in this fandom is my attempt to explain the events
following the episodes so that my favorite characters have proper resolution and act like decent
human beings. (unlike TPTB have cast them). I'm combining Murder 101 with the events post
Sentinel Too Part 2. They both happen pretty much at the same time in my story. If I got
anything wrong plot-wise, I apologize. I have only seen a handful of episodes and read a ton of
fan fiction.
** for emphasis
( ) for memory
just in case italics don't come through!
***
Lindenburg Air Field, San Diego, California, a busy airport, a stop-off between north and south,
the place where James Ellison and Blair Sandburg were to part ways.
*But only for a little while,* Blair reminded himself firmly. *Just so we can figure this whole
mess out.*
He hadn't actually mentioned his plans to the detective yet. He'd made a couple of phone calls
while in Mexico, arranging the little seaside house to be free, calling in some old, old markers.
The easy part done, now came the hard part. Leaving.
It shouldn't be so hard. *I mean, it is not like I have something to go back to,* he thought
ruefully remembering the conversation he and Chancellor Edwards had had over the phone when
he'd checked in at Rainier the day before.
*I don't even get a reprieve for being dead, not that anyone wants to talk about THAT.*
Turning away from the windows, Sandburg returned to his waiting seat, shrugging on his jacket
and grabbing hold of his backpack by one strap. Simon didn't even bother to look up from where
he sat slouched reading a magazine, cigar clenched between his teeth, unlit. Megan was curled up
impossibly tight in her chair, trying to catch some sleep. And Jim . . . Jim was over by the phone
booths calling someone; Blair hadn't bothered to ask who.
Taking them in one more time visually, saying good-bye inside his heart he turned and walked
away.
***
"Near death experiences, attempted murder, these are stressful events. He'll need someone to talk
to. From your description he's handling this too well. You know yourself, Jim, what the
consequences are when you bottle trauma like this up. I don't know. There's not much I can do
from here," the voice over the phone apologized.
"I realize that Mark, but this is important. I wouldn't call you if it wasn't," Jim insisted, rubbing
his eyes tiredly. "You're the only one I trust with this kind of shit, you know?"
"I know. Just watch him. If things look like they're coming to a breaking point I'm on the next
plane to Cascade," Mark offered. "To help BOTH of you. Out of the service or not Ellison, you
call I'm there. After taking care of my little brother in Peru . . ." Mark swallowed hard. "Giving
him a burial . . ." The voice shifted back to the no nonsense tone. "I know you're not telling me
something Ellison," a wry tone filled the words. "But I understand the need for secrets. Hell, it's
my whole line of work in the military and in psychology."
Relieved he'd gotten something-- Mark's word was good in his book --Jim smiled. "That'll be
enough. I'll give you a call if it becomes necessary." *And God willing it won't.* He turned to
look back at the waiting area where he'd left his three friend's sitting. His smile faded as he
realized Sandburg was not there. Stepping out of the booth he looked around anxiously,
searching, searching . . .
"Mark, I gotta go," Jim said tightly.
"Okay Jim. Take care and try to call once in a while when you're life is NOT falling apart around
your ears. Bye."
Not even bothering to offer his own farewells, Ellison hung up the phone with a clunk and strode
purposefully after his vanishing partner.
Jim couldn't help himself. He reached out and grabbed Blair by the arm, remembering at the last
second to gentle his rough hold; Sandburg had been through enough lately.
*That's putting it mildly,* a snide voice whispered inside him. *Shut-up,* he told it fiercely,
focusing again on the shorter man, unfortunately directing his discomfort there too.
"Where are you going?" he demanded sharply.
Sandburg looked at him as if he'd suddenly grown another head. "To find a cab," he said slowly
as if that fact was incredibly obvious even to a two year old. *But obviously not to Jim.*
Blair sighed and turned to face the detective. "Look, Jim, I need to get my head together," he
explained awkwardly, running a free hand through his lifeless hair. "Give me about a week,
maybe two, and I'll be back in Cascade. I'm staying at a friend's place," he added quickly when it
looked like Jim might protest this unexpected change of plans as foolish. "Here's the number," he
found himself adding, scribbling it onto an old receipt he dug out of his pockets. The student
hesitated before handing it over, for an instant cursing his stupidity in giving Jim a way to find
him. *But he won't come find me,* he reminded himself fiercely. *He doesn't need me
anymore.*
He swallowed hard as Jim slowly took the paper from his outstretched hand, staring at him
silently, an unreadable look on his face. The Sentinel didn't say a word.
"Call me when you get the phone set up in the loft, okay? If you want to," Blair added hastily,
trying to fill the silence "I'll be back in Cascade in a couple of days." *Now was that to reassure
him or you Blair?* he asked himself as he shouldered his backpack. *And who the hell do you
think you're kidding?*
"Sandy?" Megan called, hurrying up to join the two men, puzzlement and worry etched on her
brow.
Sandburg offered her a quick one armed hug "Bye Megan. Thanks." He looked over her
towards the Captain of Major Crimes who'd followed the Inspector, nodding once in his direction.
"You too, Simon."
Blair then looked back towards the man who used to be his Sentinel, his partner, his roommate,
his best friend. "Jim."
The intercom crackled and coughed. "Now boarding, flight 1821, United Airlines, San Diego to
Cascade. Will first class passengers please approach the gate."
Blair held the detective's gaze a moment longer and then turned and walked away, not once
looking back.
James Ellison watched the retreating figure tread his way through the crowds of travelers, not
losing sight of the slight figure even as he moved away through the glass tunnels and walkways of
the airport. He watched, jaw clenched, as Sandburg exited out into the loading zone, and hailed a
cab. He strained to hear the address, but the roar of engines blocked the sound, blocked the
words and the heartbeat. Blair ducked inside the backseat and Ellison watched helpless as his
Guide drove away.
"Jim?" There was a hand, an unfamiliar touch on his arm. He had to fight to keep from lashing
out at this alien, *wrong* presence that dared to try and offer comfort when only HIS Guide had
the right to-- He squashed the impulse and blinked to find the dark face of Simon Banks blocking
his vision. "Jim? Are you just going to let him go?"
Inexplicably angered by the question, Jim turned away and headed back towards their waiting
seats, all four of them, one no longer needed. "He's coming back. He said he's coming back," he
found himself saying, wondering who he was trying to convince, Simon or himself. "And what do
I look like? His nursemaid?" he snapped. "He's a grown man; he can take care of himself."
"It's not him I'm worried about," Simon growled under his breath, gathering his coat.
"Will rows 35 through 25 please approach the gate and begin . . ."
***
Barren. Empty. Cold.
And that didn't even begin to describe the loft. Jim closed the door behind him, staring in
bewilderment at the cavernous living room, the dust swirling around in the air, stains on the floor
easy to pick out. His senses seemed even more sharp. "Normal" for him had been moved up a
few notches since the pools, and Alex, and the visions. He already had a pretty good control over
the changes. Blair had hovered over him offering advice, ideas, and techniques tirelessly, his
voice going hoarse, his lungs straining. Jim had finally sat down and listened attentively to the
tests and exercises when he became aware that Blair would not stop talking until he complied, and
was only hurting himself and his recovery every time he opened his mouth.
It was another thing he owed the young man. The whole trip back Jim doubted Blair so much as
dozed, trying instead to help his Sentinel, the whole trip back until San Diego.
When he had left.
*Dammit! Who does Sandburg know in San Diego?* Jim opened the balcony doors and windows
to air the place, and then headed upstairs and quickly unpacked his few belongs.
*Who did Sandburg know in general?* He headed downstair, pondering this important and brand
new question. When Blair had been in the hospital Jim had wracked his brains while he paced in
the waiting room, thinking about who he should call to let them know Blair was injured but okay,
really, really okay. Naomi? He hadn't a clue what part of the globe she was currently wandering.
Friends? Jim had to admit he didn't know who outside the bullpen Blair considered his friends.
Was Blair seeing anyone right now? He couldn't remember. Was there some professor he had to
call to take over Sandburg's many responsibilities at Rainier? Blair usually took care of that the
moment he could find a phone when he was sick or injured. Did he have a group of anthropology
grads he hung out with? A bunch of people to party with and go out to movies and do other
college stuff with? Would they want to know about their friend?
Pulling out the Sentinel-safe cleaning supplies Sandburg stockpiled under the sink, he tried to
remember where he'd put the mop when he'd decided to live like a monk. Unable to remember
and not willing to go dig through the basement just yet, he grabbed a sponge and a bucket and
began to scrub at stains and dirt only he could see, mind still working furiously.
When did Blair even have the time to meet friends in between papers, classes, grading, stakeouts,
Jim's paperwork, his diss, Shaman research, the volunteer work Blair insisted on doing, and the
Sentinel stuff? Not to mention cleaning, and cooking, and taking care of his car, writing articles,
submitting grants, heading committees, office hours, anthropological displays he helped with, the
new computer system he'd set up at the P.D. . . .
The list was staggering, Ellison realized with a blink. When did Sandburg even find time to sleep?
*No wonder he wanted to spend a few days away from Cascade, you idiot! He hasn't had a real
vacation without some part of his enormous life intruding since . . . since . . . well NEVER!*
Blair was more than entitled to whatever rest he could garner before coming back home.
*Ah! But he didn't say he was coming HOME did he? He said Cascade. He said he'd come
back to Cascade.*
Ellison ignored that annoying voice in the back of his head, the one that took delight in replaying
those words he'd thrown at his Guide about betrayal and trust in the bullpen, the voice that filled
his head with the image of a shocked Blair as he opened the door to find a gun in his face.
(Oh, hey, I was down at the station doing some work and I met this woman . . ."
"Look Chief, why don't you spare me the details?")
Blair HAD tried to tell Jim, to tell him about Alex, he realized grimly, guiltily.
His memory tortured him with the confusion on that face when he'd thrown the other man out of
the loft, just packed up his stuff, one week over.
("I just need you gone.")
And then there was the memory of the absence of that-that *sound,* that most important,
necessary sound. A sound he didn't even know he'd been listening to since day one of their
meeting in that cold room at the hospital: the breath in those lungs, the familiar cadence of that
heart.
It was missing even now.
("Come on, Chief! Can I get a little space here?! ")
*But that is because he's in San Diego, you moron! He's not dead. He's coming back home, to
the loft.*
*To Cascade.*
*HOME! Even if I have to drag him back and staple him to the floor to make him stay.*
Thus decided, Jim got off of his hands and knees and began dragging furniture back up from the
basement.
***
It had taken him over eight hours to drag all the furniture and belongings back up from the
basement and into the loft. He still hadn't found the mop though, and was becoming silently
ticked off. He refused to go out and buy a new one. It was a waste of money. The mop would
appear if he did that, he just knew it. He would outsmart the mop. He'd *pretend* to buy a new
one and then he'd lure the old one out of hiding. There was something to be said for dogged
determination. But most of the loft was intact, mop discluded. Thank God the elevator was
working. He still had some things to put up and put away, but the bare minimum was present.
But not the bare necessities.
Because he still couldn't find the damn mop.
Because Blair wasn't here.
Because Blair would know where it was, or have some sort of bizarre method of retracing his
steps and finding it.
Blair wasn't home.
Blair was in *San Diego.*
Digging the slip of paper out of his pocket, he noted with a pang that it was a receipt for the last
grocery run Blair had done. Looking at the time and date he realized that it had been Blair who
had taken the time to stock the refrigerator one last time, even though it wasn't his refrigerator
any more, even though he'd just been told to drag his belonging out of what used to be his home.
Pushing the thought aside, Jim grabbed the phone and punched the numbers in and waited
anxiously, listening to the ringing on the other end.
On the fifth ring it was answered.
"Hello?"
Blair's voice suddenly filled the room, making it lighter, making it easier somehow to breathe, to
exist.
"It's Jim."
"I figured." There was a smile in the tone. "What's up?"
Jim flopped down on the couch and tried to think of a plausible explanation for his call at-- he
looked at his watch --two in the morning, one that hopefully didn't sound possessive, psychotic,
belligerent, and rude. "I uh . . . "
Sandburg saved him. "You got everything moved back into the loft or did you just sent up the
phone, man?"
"No, I got stuff," he replied, relieved by the generality, the *safeness* of the topic. "I got stuff.
Its a pain in the ass moving it all back though."
"Gives you a chance to clean," Blair teased absently.
Jim found himself relaxing. The kid knew him so well.
("Whoa, whoa, wait, wait. I know who I am, okay? I don't need you or anyone else to help me to
define that. Is that clear?")
Jim shifted uncomfortably, wanting the echoing words, the hateful accusations Blair had just
stood there and took, to leave. *Maybe safe isn't possible anymore.* Bravely he broached what
he hoped was the least sensitive issue. "What- uh what do you want me to do about your stuff?"
There was a long pause on the line, then: "Jim, none of my stuff is there."
The detective glanced around at the empty walls and shelves. Barren. Cold. Empty. "Yeah," he
agreed hoarsely. "I kind of noticed that."
"Lack of clutter and general chaos unnerving?" Blair asked wryly. "See, I told you you'd get used
to the masks." A light chuckle floated to his ear.
Jim smiled; maybe all their problems could so easily be overcome. Maybe talking wasn't so bad
after all. Maybe Mark was right; just *be* there and talk to his partner. Blair didn't seem to want
to push, to analyze. He should be thankful.
"You okay Chief?" he asked suddenly.
"Sure, sure," Sandburg said easily, waving the whole thing off; homelessness, abandonment,
death, rebirth . . . "A couple days to get my head together and I'm heading back to Cascade."
Cascade. Not HOME not THE LOFT not the P.D. or RAINIER. Just *Cascade.*
Jim sat up, gripping the received so tightly that the plastic casing cracked.
"Well, it's late," he said, forcing the light tone to his voice, not wanting to ruin this first call, this
first olive branch by shouting. "You should be sleeping. Are you taking your meds?"
"Yes mom," the student drawled.
"Well . . . goodnight Chief."
He heard Sandburg sigh, his voice dropping low, almost a whisper, a benediction, a blessing from
his Shaman. "Good night Jim."
click
***
"Jim? Could I have a word?"
The detective halted mid-motion in sitting down. When Simon was polite and soft spoken there
could only be hell to pay. He looked around the bullpen wondering if anyone knew what was up.
No help there. Megan glared at him from behind her computer. She was seriously ticked off
about how he'd handled Sandburg in recent days and she'd obviously shared some of the tale with
Rafe, H., and Joel because they ignored him too. And Rhonda, Rhonda looked like she might just
leap over her desk and attack him with a stapler when he'd said good morning to her.
Sighing, Jim decided to go bravely to his fate.
"Close the door behind you," was Simon's curt command from where he stood by the window, his
back to the detective.
Deciding offense was in fact a good defense, Jim opened the conversation. "What's this all about
Captain?"
Bank's turned, scowling and threw a file at Ellison. "Your new partner detective."
Peering into the file and seeing the name Jim snapped it shut quickly. "I have a partner Simon.
Connor and I don't--"
"No, you don't have a partner. Remember?" Banks said coldly.
Clenching his jaw, Jim had to refrain from growling at his superior. "Blair is coming back in a few
days sir."
"I know that," Simon snapped, taking his seat. "This is what you wanted. I asked you if you
could do the Sentinel thing on your own when you cut the kid loose. You said yes. His 90 day
pass was up a long time ago Jim. What with . . . what happened," Simon looked away for a
moment, "at the University, the Commissioner wanted his pass pulled."
"And you're just going to sit there and pull his observer credentials because of some stupid time
limit? Blame what happened on *him?!*" Ellison asked angrily.
Bank's stood, barely controlled fury in his eyes. "This is what YOU wanted detective! You
wanted the kid on board, you needed him, he was here. You don't need him, I can't fight to let
him stay. Don't you fucking dare lay this on me! I'm doing what you wanted!"
Jim's mouth tightened into a thin line. He held his Captain's gaze for a moment before looking
away, guiltily. The past was coming back to do more than haunt him, it was coming back to bite
him on the ass. And he deserved it.
Ellison took a deep breath, and then another, fighting to find the right words. Finally: "I don't
want this, sir" he said softly. "I don't want this."
Simon regarded him silently before nodding slowly. "When Sandburg returns bring him in and
we'll see about getting him an updated observer pass."
"Thank you sir." Jim closed his eyes and sighed. He could breath again.
"Until then you ride with Connor." At the beginning of Ellison's protest, he raised a hand and cut
the Sentinel off. "I don't want to hear it Ellison. Try to keep from killing each other, okay?"
The joke fell flat, too much death hovered around them already.
"Yes, sir."
***
Jim shrugged off his coat, hanging it onto the lonely pegs that lined the wall next to the front
door. He threw his keys into the basket and ran his hands through his hair and over his face.
Murder investigations were always taxing-- so many people to call, so many leads to follow. The
victim had been a private investigator so that meant all his clients had to be taken into account
too. That and Megan was now his partner. Megan Conner who had figured out that Jim wasn't
psychic, but a Sentinel.
He pulled out a beer from the fridge and drank half of it in one breath before going over to sit on
the couch.
All he wanted to do was relax, unwind, breathe . . .
First though, he needed to call his partner, let him know what happened. He didn't want Blair to
come back and find things in a bigger mess than when he left.
"Hello?"
Jim didn't even bother to identify himself. "Went back to work today. The guys were asking for
you."
*Okay, that's good Ellison. Lead up to it. Don't be threatening or angry about the whole thing
with Megan. He did warn you about using your senses around her. Don't push. It's not his
damn fault, remember?*
"Tell 'em hi for me, kay?"
"Sure."
Pausing for a moment, Jim took a deep breath and began speaking about what really bothered
him. Blair deserved to know. "They, uh . . . the Commissioner pulled your observer pass," he
said hesitantly, wondering if he should elaborate on his own part in trying to get rid of Sandburg,
and cowardly deciding against it.
Silence greeted that announcement, silence that frightened the detective so much he rushed to fill
it with words, which was more Sandburg's gig than his, but this was *too important, dammit!*
"But it's just a mistake, because of the- of the . . ." Jim hadn't a clue as to how to finish *that*
sentence. He pressed on regardless. "I-I can--"
Blair interrupted and once again Jim thanked God that Blair knew what to say; his words always
made sense, his voice created order out of chaos, he loved Blair for that. "Jim, don't go yelling at
the Commissioner or Simon. It wasn't about dying, remember?"
For a moment, a split second of bliss, Jim had thought that Blair wouldn't put it together, wouldn't
figure out the *why* behind the loss of his pass, but then Sandburg was much smarter than even
Jim, the benefit of his genius, gave him credit for.
The bullpen, his words to Blair, loud enough for everyone to hear. Telling Simon that this was
what he wanted, to cut Blair loose.
Blair remembered, and realized that Jim had pulled one more rug out from under him that hateful,
fateful day.
("Do you think you can handle this Sentinel thing on your own?"
"Yes.")
No.
Simon had taken him at his word.
Blair had expected it to happen.
Jim wondered again just what sort of friend he had become. Where did he get off saying things
about trust and betrayal?
He felt the strong urge to throw up.
"I--I-- When you come back we can get that fixed," Jim said desperately, trying not to let the
emotion spill into his voice but failing miserably. "You'll have to fill out the paperwork again, in
triplicate, Chief," he added trying to make a joke out of it, make a joke about the whole mess.
("You know, Chief, if you want to meet nurses, there are easier ways.")
("I couldn't let you die. You owe your last month's rent.")
Jokes. Jokes had gotten him into this cross-country phone tag game.
("Chief, I don't know if I'm ready to take that trip with you.")
And now he thought jokes would get him out of it.
He was such an idiot.
But Blair, bless his soul, understood. Blair always understood even when he shouldn't. Blair was
his friend and in Sandburg's book you take a friend's weirdness and you dealt with it, even
tasteless jokes after rising from the dead.
"Paperwork," Blair said with a hoarse laugh. "The bane of my existence." The words descended
into coughing, wracking spasms that tore from his partner's chest and into Jim's, who ached in
sympathy hearing that horrible sound.
"Sandburg? Chief?" he barked over the phone. *C'mon kid, answer me.* "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah I-I'm fine," Blair gasped, taking in huge draughts of air.
"You don't sound okay," Jim said in a small voice. *Shit, why does he have to be so far away? I
can't DO anything from here.* "Just sit down, lean forward, breathe deeply." He stretched out
his hearing and heard the rustle of cloth on skin as Blair obeyed. "That's it. In and out. In and
out. Have you been eating, taking those pills on time?" he demanded in the middle of his quiet
litany, unable to help himself. He heard the sound of Sandburg nodding and breathed easier
himself. "Okay, that's good then. Just breathe." *Oh God kid, just keep breathing, don't you
ever stop.*
After several long minutes a weak voice spoke. "Sorry."
"You apologize for the dumbest things Sandburg," Jim scolded, wondering just what exactly Blair
was apologizing for, wondering why his voice kept wanting to crack and break, why his eyes
burned.
*Must be the cleaning supplies.*
But that was bullshit because Blair had bought them, and Blair always, always made sure
everything was safe for him.
Always.
"I know," Blair whispered in response. Jim could practically see and feel the warm smile that
accompanied those words: the Sandburg Special, used only on very rare occasions and to be
treasured. "g'night," Blair whispered.
"Night Chief," Jim whispered back.
click
Sitting down on the couch, he grabbed his now room temperature beer, mulling over the
conversation, trying to slow his own pounding heart after hearing Blair cough like that.
*He didn't say yes,* he realized at last. *He didn't say he wanted to come back and work with
you. Be your partner.*
("I got to have a partner I can trust.")
That's you Chief. It's only ever been you.
("Usually he had a partner along, someone to watch his back."
"You mean like you?"
"Oh yeah, beautiful, great idea, I'd love to!")
I've just got to tell you that, Chief. Then things'll be back the way they were supposed to be.
Just got to tell Sandburg.
***
The phone picked up, Sandburg talking straight out of the gate, sounding distant as if he were
using a speaker phone. "Hey Jim."
Jim waved the open letter he had in his hand as if Sandburg could see it and him, as he stood by
the phone, not even his coat off. "I got a letter from Rainier."
"Oh?" Blair said absently, a sound other than Blair on the line, sort a metallic rasping that Jim
couldn't place. He pushed the thought aside and waved the letter futilely again.
"Well, actually it was addressed to me in leu of Major Crimes." Ellison looked down at the
horrible words and wondered how worse life could get for Sandburg before he permanently threw
in the towel "They . . . uh . . . they . . ." *God, how the hell am I to tell him this?*
"Fired me," Blair piped up cheerfully, the rasping sound continuing. "Yep, I know. I refused to
take back this petition I sent before I headed down to Mexico. One of my students, Brad
Ventriss, was cheating. Turned in this other guy's term paper with all his old notes on it. I mean
how stupid does he think I am, huh? His dad's soo rich so it doesn't matter. They sicced a lawyer
on me. Fucking politics. So, how's work?"
Jim pulled his jaw up from the floor and dropped the letter. Blair was taking this all in stride
which was eerie, but his Guide had asked him a question and he answered promptly, regardless of
confusion.
"Joel's working on a murder case, I'm sort of helping. One Dennis Chung, he's a P.I.," he
continued, warming to the subject, to the possibility of hearing Blair's take on the case, just like
old times. "We've been checking clients." Jim hesitated. He couldn't just drop this. *I mean this
was Sandburg's whole life here!* "Do you want me to go yell at the Chancellor or something?
Get you're job back?" he offered tentatively.
"Nah." The rasping sound grew harsher, harder, an odd contrast to the unconcerned tone. Jim
reached out to listen to his Guide's heartbeat and found it elevated, but whether it was from the
drugs, or the strain, or the news he didn't know. "I'm sort of disillusioned with the whole Rainier
philosophy right now," Blair continued, "That, and Chancellor Edwards and the Chair of the
department both hate me."
That noise was really starting to irritate him. He could almost place it . . ."Sandburg?"
"Yeah?"
"What the hell is that noise? Are you-you cutting your hair?"
Blair hesitated with the scissors in one hand, a chunk of his hair in the other. He looked around
his place on the floor where he sat cross-legged facing the phone, realizing he'd carpeted the floor
with his curls. "Just a trim," he said keeping his voice steady as he brought the scissors up again.
"Chlorine is so not good for it."
"Oh." Jim sounded a bit stressed. He didn't like talking about the fountain, but then neither did
he, so Blair figured they were about even. "Um . . . what about you dissertation?"
snip "What about it?"
"I mean," Jim's voice continued from the tiny phone speaker, concerned, worried, and trying not
to be demanding. It was kind of funny to listen to. "Will you be able to turn it in?"
Blair nodded even though he knew that Jim couldn't see him. *Oh well, maybe he'll hear me.*
"Uh-huh. E-mailed it a couple of days ago, sent the hardcover version in." He pulled down on a
curl until it straightened almost to the tip of his nose and then savagely chopped it off. "They sent
me back a defense time. I'll be back in Cascade by then."
There was a long pause. "You *sent* it in?"
Jim really sounded stressed now; for a moment Sandburg hesitated in his destruction to wonder
why. "Yeees," he said slowly.
The speaker exploded. Sandburg could almost picture Jim leaping to his feet, pacing frantically.
If he'd been there physically, Blair knew he'd be up against a wall at this point. "WHAT THE
FUCK HAPPENED TO OUR DEAL? YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO SHOW ANYONE
ANYTHING UNLESS I READ IT FIRST!"
Oh, so that was it. *Fear-based responses. He doesn't trust you Sandburg, you idiot.* Blair
sighed tiredly. It never got any better, not even dying had helped, it seemed. *So much for my
big surprise.*
"Chill, man," he soothed, trying to keep the anger out of his voice at hearing once again
irrefutable proof of what his Sentinel really thought of him. *No anger, you're to blame,
remember?* "Deal's off. I'm not writing about you."
"You-you aren't?" Jim's voice asked in bewilderment.
"No. Changed my mind after the whole Brackett mess. I figured I write it and you end up in a
bunker in Nevada with electrodes everywhere," Blair waved his hands to illustrate the point even
though Jim was two states away and even Sentinel sight wasn't that good. "You so do not need
that headache man."
"So . . . you're doing it on closed societies?"
"Yep."
Jim sputtered for a moment and then flopped back down on the couch and thought back to that
night shift he'd pulled that Sandburg had hung around for. "Wh-what about that chapter I read?
Didn't you turn that in? Why did you write that for?"
"You didn't like it, I didn't turn it in. I wrote it for me, for you, us," Blair added hastily, the first
sign of emotion in his voice since he'd cursed Rainier. "Whatever." Jim could just imagine those
waving hands as his Guide pushed the whole issue aside. "I wrote it 'cause all the work you did; it
was important. I wasn't just testing you for the hell of it, you know. You're not a lab rat. It was
never like that. Or at least it wasn't supposed to be, but I guess maybe you thought so. I wanted
to type it up and give it to you, sort of--- sort of as a, like . . a graduation present." Here Blair's
voice got soft, sort of wistful, the shearing sound halting for a moment. It pulled at Jim, at the
Sentinel he was, guilt flooding him. "Sort of a thank you, good work, like Sentinel graduation."
Sandburg affected a pompous, booming tone of voice. "Congratulations, you are now a fully in
control, certified, protector of the tribe and Watchman, oh, and here's the instruction manual that
goes with you. Sort of a addendum to Burton's work," he added in his usual voice. "But, hey I
can delete it if you want."
"No," Jim said sharply, touched (though he'd never admit it aloud) by yet another selfless gesture
by Blair on his Sentinel's behalf. Hadn't Blair offered to destroy his notes for him, for their
friendship? Jim felt lower than slime. He'd had the opportunity to prove his trust in his Guide and
failed again, miserably. *Fuck!* "No, Chief. That's okay."
"So you're cool with all of this?" Sandburg asked tentatively.
"Yeah, yeah. I guess . . I guess I have to be," he said quietly. *But what does this mean for us?
For ME?* It sounded selfish, but his heart demanded an answer, the Sentinel demanded an
answer. *Was Blair coming back only to leave? They'd be no need for the pass if the
dissertation was done.* Congratulations on you diss Chief," he offered at last, feeling sort of
shell shocked.
"Thanks Jim." The snipping sound resumed again.
"Jeez Sandburg, how long does it take to trim hair?" Ellison asked, trying to lighten the mood.
"Longer than yours obviously," a teasing voice replied, more than willing to go along with his
Sentinel's sudden change of topic, forgetting and forgiving the earlier outburst. "Some of us are
not blessed with receding hairlines--"
"Watch it Chief, I know where you live," Jim growled.
"Not anymore Jim," Sandburg laughed, and Jim froze. That was one joke he didn't want to hear.
"Good night."
He forced his vocal cords to work. "Good night Chief."
click
The detective stared at the phone in his hands and wondered quietly just what the hell he was to
do now.
Jim Ellison, Sentinel, Detective, former Special Forces Army Ranger, and all around screw up
when it came to friendships (he'd decided it was an even better title than Sentinel of the Great
City; he didn't think he deserved that one) opened the french doors that lead to the small room
that used to be Blair's. Turning around once in the barren little space, eyes haunted, mind lost
down paths too dark to tell he failed to hear the noise coming from the fire escape.
By the time he registered the dart that had struck the back of his neck, he was already swallowed
by darkness.
Miles away, Blair Sandburg stood and went into the bathroom to check the results of his hair
trimming, wondering just how bad his sudden, out of control hacking had been.
Flipping on the lights and staring at the unfamiliar face in the mirror, Blair could only think of just
how short a distance he'd come since the last time he'd been at this cabin and life had fallen apart
around him.
end
to be continued??? only Feedback will tell a_sayyar2118@hotmail.com Be gentle. It's my first
Sentinel story.
by fyresong
COMPLETED 11/11/00
FEEDBACK: a_sayyar2118@hotmail.com
TEASER/STORY DESCRIPTION: Who does Blair know in San Diego? Will Jim ever find the
mop? And does AT&T or MCI have the best state to state call rates?
ARCHIVE: Cascade Library, Guide Posts. Everyone else please ask.
TIME LINE/CATEGORY: Post Sentinel Too part 2. Alternate Universe, or more accurately,
veering from cannon. Part 1 of a longer series?
RATING: PGish? I have swear words in this. Be warned! No violence. Not yet anyway. tee
hee!
DISCLAIMER: No major plot-lines, characters, setting, or major events alluded to in this story
are mine in any way. Pet Fly, UPN, and Paramount own these guys. Some of the dialogue is
pulled straight from the TV show for the sake of continuity, and is thus logically NOT mine. No
money is being made off this story. Please ask author before reproducing or posing anywhere else.
NOTES: The first two episodes of The Sentinel I ever saw were Sentinel Too parts 1 and 2. It
seems only fitting that the story I first post in this fandom is my attempt to explain the events
following the episodes so that my favorite characters have proper resolution and act like decent
human beings. (unlike TPTB have cast them). I'm combining Murder 101 with the events post
Sentinel Too Part 2. They both happen pretty much at the same time in my story. If I got
anything wrong plot-wise, I apologize. I have only seen a handful of episodes and read a ton of
fan fiction.
** for emphasis
( ) for memory
just in case italics don't come through!
***
Lindenburg Air Field, San Diego, California, a busy airport, a stop-off between north and south,
the place where James Ellison and Blair Sandburg were to part ways.
*But only for a little while,* Blair reminded himself firmly. *Just so we can figure this whole
mess out.*
He hadn't actually mentioned his plans to the detective yet. He'd made a couple of phone calls
while in Mexico, arranging the little seaside house to be free, calling in some old, old markers.
The easy part done, now came the hard part. Leaving.
It shouldn't be so hard. *I mean, it is not like I have something to go back to,* he thought
ruefully remembering the conversation he and Chancellor Edwards had had over the phone when
he'd checked in at Rainier the day before.
*I don't even get a reprieve for being dead, not that anyone wants to talk about THAT.*
Turning away from the windows, Sandburg returned to his waiting seat, shrugging on his jacket
and grabbing hold of his backpack by one strap. Simon didn't even bother to look up from where
he sat slouched reading a magazine, cigar clenched between his teeth, unlit. Megan was curled up
impossibly tight in her chair, trying to catch some sleep. And Jim . . . Jim was over by the phone
booths calling someone; Blair hadn't bothered to ask who.
Taking them in one more time visually, saying good-bye inside his heart he turned and walked
away.
***
"Near death experiences, attempted murder, these are stressful events. He'll need someone to talk
to. From your description he's handling this too well. You know yourself, Jim, what the
consequences are when you bottle trauma like this up. I don't know. There's not much I can do
from here," the voice over the phone apologized.
"I realize that Mark, but this is important. I wouldn't call you if it wasn't," Jim insisted, rubbing
his eyes tiredly. "You're the only one I trust with this kind of shit, you know?"
"I know. Just watch him. If things look like they're coming to a breaking point I'm on the next
plane to Cascade," Mark offered. "To help BOTH of you. Out of the service or not Ellison, you
call I'm there. After taking care of my little brother in Peru . . ." Mark swallowed hard. "Giving
him a burial . . ." The voice shifted back to the no nonsense tone. "I know you're not telling me
something Ellison," a wry tone filled the words. "But I understand the need for secrets. Hell, it's
my whole line of work in the military and in psychology."
Relieved he'd gotten something-- Mark's word was good in his book --Jim smiled. "That'll be
enough. I'll give you a call if it becomes necessary." *And God willing it won't.* He turned to
look back at the waiting area where he'd left his three friend's sitting. His smile faded as he
realized Sandburg was not there. Stepping out of the booth he looked around anxiously,
searching, searching . . .
"Mark, I gotta go," Jim said tightly.
"Okay Jim. Take care and try to call once in a while when you're life is NOT falling apart around
your ears. Bye."
Not even bothering to offer his own farewells, Ellison hung up the phone with a clunk and strode
purposefully after his vanishing partner.
Jim couldn't help himself. He reached out and grabbed Blair by the arm, remembering at the last
second to gentle his rough hold; Sandburg had been through enough lately.
*That's putting it mildly,* a snide voice whispered inside him. *Shut-up,* he told it fiercely,
focusing again on the shorter man, unfortunately directing his discomfort there too.
"Where are you going?" he demanded sharply.
Sandburg looked at him as if he'd suddenly grown another head. "To find a cab," he said slowly
as if that fact was incredibly obvious even to a two year old. *But obviously not to Jim.*
Blair sighed and turned to face the detective. "Look, Jim, I need to get my head together," he
explained awkwardly, running a free hand through his lifeless hair. "Give me about a week,
maybe two, and I'll be back in Cascade. I'm staying at a friend's place," he added quickly when it
looked like Jim might protest this unexpected change of plans as foolish. "Here's the number," he
found himself adding, scribbling it onto an old receipt he dug out of his pockets. The student
hesitated before handing it over, for an instant cursing his stupidity in giving Jim a way to find
him. *But he won't come find me,* he reminded himself fiercely. *He doesn't need me
anymore.*
He swallowed hard as Jim slowly took the paper from his outstretched hand, staring at him
silently, an unreadable look on his face. The Sentinel didn't say a word.
"Call me when you get the phone set up in the loft, okay? If you want to," Blair added hastily,
trying to fill the silence "I'll be back in Cascade in a couple of days." *Now was that to reassure
him or you Blair?* he asked himself as he shouldered his backpack. *And who the hell do you
think you're kidding?*
"Sandy?" Megan called, hurrying up to join the two men, puzzlement and worry etched on her
brow.
Sandburg offered her a quick one armed hug "Bye Megan. Thanks." He looked over her
towards the Captain of Major Crimes who'd followed the Inspector, nodding once in his direction.
"You too, Simon."
Blair then looked back towards the man who used to be his Sentinel, his partner, his roommate,
his best friend. "Jim."
The intercom crackled and coughed. "Now boarding, flight 1821, United Airlines, San Diego to
Cascade. Will first class passengers please approach the gate."
Blair held the detective's gaze a moment longer and then turned and walked away, not once
looking back.
James Ellison watched the retreating figure tread his way through the crowds of travelers, not
losing sight of the slight figure even as he moved away through the glass tunnels and walkways of
the airport. He watched, jaw clenched, as Sandburg exited out into the loading zone, and hailed a
cab. He strained to hear the address, but the roar of engines blocked the sound, blocked the
words and the heartbeat. Blair ducked inside the backseat and Ellison watched helpless as his
Guide drove away.
"Jim?" There was a hand, an unfamiliar touch on his arm. He had to fight to keep from lashing
out at this alien, *wrong* presence that dared to try and offer comfort when only HIS Guide had
the right to-- He squashed the impulse and blinked to find the dark face of Simon Banks blocking
his vision. "Jim? Are you just going to let him go?"
Inexplicably angered by the question, Jim turned away and headed back towards their waiting
seats, all four of them, one no longer needed. "He's coming back. He said he's coming back," he
found himself saying, wondering who he was trying to convince, Simon or himself. "And what do
I look like? His nursemaid?" he snapped. "He's a grown man; he can take care of himself."
"It's not him I'm worried about," Simon growled under his breath, gathering his coat.
"Will rows 35 through 25 please approach the gate and begin . . ."
***
Barren. Empty. Cold.
And that didn't even begin to describe the loft. Jim closed the door behind him, staring in
bewilderment at the cavernous living room, the dust swirling around in the air, stains on the floor
easy to pick out. His senses seemed even more sharp. "Normal" for him had been moved up a
few notches since the pools, and Alex, and the visions. He already had a pretty good control over
the changes. Blair had hovered over him offering advice, ideas, and techniques tirelessly, his
voice going hoarse, his lungs straining. Jim had finally sat down and listened attentively to the
tests and exercises when he became aware that Blair would not stop talking until he complied, and
was only hurting himself and his recovery every time he opened his mouth.
It was another thing he owed the young man. The whole trip back Jim doubted Blair so much as
dozed, trying instead to help his Sentinel, the whole trip back until San Diego.
When he had left.
*Dammit! Who does Sandburg know in San Diego?* Jim opened the balcony doors and windows
to air the place, and then headed upstairs and quickly unpacked his few belongs.
*Who did Sandburg know in general?* He headed downstair, pondering this important and brand
new question. When Blair had been in the hospital Jim had wracked his brains while he paced in
the waiting room, thinking about who he should call to let them know Blair was injured but okay,
really, really okay. Naomi? He hadn't a clue what part of the globe she was currently wandering.
Friends? Jim had to admit he didn't know who outside the bullpen Blair considered his friends.
Was Blair seeing anyone right now? He couldn't remember. Was there some professor he had to
call to take over Sandburg's many responsibilities at Rainier? Blair usually took care of that the
moment he could find a phone when he was sick or injured. Did he have a group of anthropology
grads he hung out with? A bunch of people to party with and go out to movies and do other
college stuff with? Would they want to know about their friend?
Pulling out the Sentinel-safe cleaning supplies Sandburg stockpiled under the sink, he tried to
remember where he'd put the mop when he'd decided to live like a monk. Unable to remember
and not willing to go dig through the basement just yet, he grabbed a sponge and a bucket and
began to scrub at stains and dirt only he could see, mind still working furiously.
When did Blair even have the time to meet friends in between papers, classes, grading, stakeouts,
Jim's paperwork, his diss, Shaman research, the volunteer work Blair insisted on doing, and the
Sentinel stuff? Not to mention cleaning, and cooking, and taking care of his car, writing articles,
submitting grants, heading committees, office hours, anthropological displays he helped with, the
new computer system he'd set up at the P.D. . . .
The list was staggering, Ellison realized with a blink. When did Sandburg even find time to sleep?
*No wonder he wanted to spend a few days away from Cascade, you idiot! He hasn't had a real
vacation without some part of his enormous life intruding since . . . since . . . well NEVER!*
Blair was more than entitled to whatever rest he could garner before coming back home.
*Ah! But he didn't say he was coming HOME did he? He said Cascade. He said he'd come
back to Cascade.*
Ellison ignored that annoying voice in the back of his head, the one that took delight in replaying
those words he'd thrown at his Guide about betrayal and trust in the bullpen, the voice that filled
his head with the image of a shocked Blair as he opened the door to find a gun in his face.
(Oh, hey, I was down at the station doing some work and I met this woman . . ."
"Look Chief, why don't you spare me the details?")
Blair HAD tried to tell Jim, to tell him about Alex, he realized grimly, guiltily.
His memory tortured him with the confusion on that face when he'd thrown the other man out of
the loft, just packed up his stuff, one week over.
("I just need you gone.")
And then there was the memory of the absence of that-that *sound,* that most important,
necessary sound. A sound he didn't even know he'd been listening to since day one of their
meeting in that cold room at the hospital: the breath in those lungs, the familiar cadence of that
heart.
It was missing even now.
("Come on, Chief! Can I get a little space here?! ")
*But that is because he's in San Diego, you moron! He's not dead. He's coming back home, to
the loft.*
*To Cascade.*
*HOME! Even if I have to drag him back and staple him to the floor to make him stay.*
Thus decided, Jim got off of his hands and knees and began dragging furniture back up from the
basement.
***
It had taken him over eight hours to drag all the furniture and belongings back up from the
basement and into the loft. He still hadn't found the mop though, and was becoming silently
ticked off. He refused to go out and buy a new one. It was a waste of money. The mop would
appear if he did that, he just knew it. He would outsmart the mop. He'd *pretend* to buy a new
one and then he'd lure the old one out of hiding. There was something to be said for dogged
determination. But most of the loft was intact, mop discluded. Thank God the elevator was
working. He still had some things to put up and put away, but the bare minimum was present.
But not the bare necessities.
Because he still couldn't find the damn mop.
Because Blair wasn't here.
Because Blair would know where it was, or have some sort of bizarre method of retracing his
steps and finding it.
Blair wasn't home.
Blair was in *San Diego.*
Digging the slip of paper out of his pocket, he noted with a pang that it was a receipt for the last
grocery run Blair had done. Looking at the time and date he realized that it had been Blair who
had taken the time to stock the refrigerator one last time, even though it wasn't his refrigerator
any more, even though he'd just been told to drag his belonging out of what used to be his home.
Pushing the thought aside, Jim grabbed the phone and punched the numbers in and waited
anxiously, listening to the ringing on the other end.
On the fifth ring it was answered.
"Hello?"
Blair's voice suddenly filled the room, making it lighter, making it easier somehow to breathe, to
exist.
"It's Jim."
"I figured." There was a smile in the tone. "What's up?"
Jim flopped down on the couch and tried to think of a plausible explanation for his call at-- he
looked at his watch --two in the morning, one that hopefully didn't sound possessive, psychotic,
belligerent, and rude. "I uh . . . "
Sandburg saved him. "You got everything moved back into the loft or did you just sent up the
phone, man?"
"No, I got stuff," he replied, relieved by the generality, the *safeness* of the topic. "I got stuff.
Its a pain in the ass moving it all back though."
"Gives you a chance to clean," Blair teased absently.
Jim found himself relaxing. The kid knew him so well.
("Whoa, whoa, wait, wait. I know who I am, okay? I don't need you or anyone else to help me to
define that. Is that clear?")
Jim shifted uncomfortably, wanting the echoing words, the hateful accusations Blair had just
stood there and took, to leave. *Maybe safe isn't possible anymore.* Bravely he broached what
he hoped was the least sensitive issue. "What- uh what do you want me to do about your stuff?"
There was a long pause on the line, then: "Jim, none of my stuff is there."
The detective glanced around at the empty walls and shelves. Barren. Cold. Empty. "Yeah," he
agreed hoarsely. "I kind of noticed that."
"Lack of clutter and general chaos unnerving?" Blair asked wryly. "See, I told you you'd get used
to the masks." A light chuckle floated to his ear.
Jim smiled; maybe all their problems could so easily be overcome. Maybe talking wasn't so bad
after all. Maybe Mark was right; just *be* there and talk to his partner. Blair didn't seem to want
to push, to analyze. He should be thankful.
"You okay Chief?" he asked suddenly.
"Sure, sure," Sandburg said easily, waving the whole thing off; homelessness, abandonment,
death, rebirth . . . "A couple days to get my head together and I'm heading back to Cascade."
Cascade. Not HOME not THE LOFT not the P.D. or RAINIER. Just *Cascade.*
Jim sat up, gripping the received so tightly that the plastic casing cracked.
"Well, it's late," he said, forcing the light tone to his voice, not wanting to ruin this first call, this
first olive branch by shouting. "You should be sleeping. Are you taking your meds?"
"Yes mom," the student drawled.
"Well . . . goodnight Chief."
He heard Sandburg sigh, his voice dropping low, almost a whisper, a benediction, a blessing from
his Shaman. "Good night Jim."
click
***
"Jim? Could I have a word?"
The detective halted mid-motion in sitting down. When Simon was polite and soft spoken there
could only be hell to pay. He looked around the bullpen wondering if anyone knew what was up.
No help there. Megan glared at him from behind her computer. She was seriously ticked off
about how he'd handled Sandburg in recent days and she'd obviously shared some of the tale with
Rafe, H., and Joel because they ignored him too. And Rhonda, Rhonda looked like she might just
leap over her desk and attack him with a stapler when he'd said good morning to her.
Sighing, Jim decided to go bravely to his fate.
"Close the door behind you," was Simon's curt command from where he stood by the window, his
back to the detective.
Deciding offense was in fact a good defense, Jim opened the conversation. "What's this all about
Captain?"
Bank's turned, scowling and threw a file at Ellison. "Your new partner detective."
Peering into the file and seeing the name Jim snapped it shut quickly. "I have a partner Simon.
Connor and I don't--"
"No, you don't have a partner. Remember?" Banks said coldly.
Clenching his jaw, Jim had to refrain from growling at his superior. "Blair is coming back in a few
days sir."
"I know that," Simon snapped, taking his seat. "This is what you wanted. I asked you if you
could do the Sentinel thing on your own when you cut the kid loose. You said yes. His 90 day
pass was up a long time ago Jim. What with . . . what happened," Simon looked away for a
moment, "at the University, the Commissioner wanted his pass pulled."
"And you're just going to sit there and pull his observer credentials because of some stupid time
limit? Blame what happened on *him?!*" Ellison asked angrily.
Bank's stood, barely controlled fury in his eyes. "This is what YOU wanted detective! You
wanted the kid on board, you needed him, he was here. You don't need him, I can't fight to let
him stay. Don't you fucking dare lay this on me! I'm doing what you wanted!"
Jim's mouth tightened into a thin line. He held his Captain's gaze for a moment before looking
away, guiltily. The past was coming back to do more than haunt him, it was coming back to bite
him on the ass. And he deserved it.
Ellison took a deep breath, and then another, fighting to find the right words. Finally: "I don't
want this, sir" he said softly. "I don't want this."
Simon regarded him silently before nodding slowly. "When Sandburg returns bring him in and
we'll see about getting him an updated observer pass."
"Thank you sir." Jim closed his eyes and sighed. He could breath again.
"Until then you ride with Connor." At the beginning of Ellison's protest, he raised a hand and cut
the Sentinel off. "I don't want to hear it Ellison. Try to keep from killing each other, okay?"
The joke fell flat, too much death hovered around them already.
"Yes, sir."
***
Jim shrugged off his coat, hanging it onto the lonely pegs that lined the wall next to the front
door. He threw his keys into the basket and ran his hands through his hair and over his face.
Murder investigations were always taxing-- so many people to call, so many leads to follow. The
victim had been a private investigator so that meant all his clients had to be taken into account
too. That and Megan was now his partner. Megan Conner who had figured out that Jim wasn't
psychic, but a Sentinel.
He pulled out a beer from the fridge and drank half of it in one breath before going over to sit on
the couch.
All he wanted to do was relax, unwind, breathe . . .
First though, he needed to call his partner, let him know what happened. He didn't want Blair to
come back and find things in a bigger mess than when he left.
"Hello?"
Jim didn't even bother to identify himself. "Went back to work today. The guys were asking for
you."
*Okay, that's good Ellison. Lead up to it. Don't be threatening or angry about the whole thing
with Megan. He did warn you about using your senses around her. Don't push. It's not his
damn fault, remember?*
"Tell 'em hi for me, kay?"
"Sure."
Pausing for a moment, Jim took a deep breath and began speaking about what really bothered
him. Blair deserved to know. "They, uh . . . the Commissioner pulled your observer pass," he
said hesitantly, wondering if he should elaborate on his own part in trying to get rid of Sandburg,
and cowardly deciding against it.
Silence greeted that announcement, silence that frightened the detective so much he rushed to fill
it with words, which was more Sandburg's gig than his, but this was *too important, dammit!*
"But it's just a mistake, because of the- of the . . ." Jim hadn't a clue as to how to finish *that*
sentence. He pressed on regardless. "I-I can--"
Blair interrupted and once again Jim thanked God that Blair knew what to say; his words always
made sense, his voice created order out of chaos, he loved Blair for that. "Jim, don't go yelling at
the Commissioner or Simon. It wasn't about dying, remember?"
For a moment, a split second of bliss, Jim had thought that Blair wouldn't put it together, wouldn't
figure out the *why* behind the loss of his pass, but then Sandburg was much smarter than even
Jim, the benefit of his genius, gave him credit for.
The bullpen, his words to Blair, loud enough for everyone to hear. Telling Simon that this was
what he wanted, to cut Blair loose.
Blair remembered, and realized that Jim had pulled one more rug out from under him that hateful,
fateful day.
("Do you think you can handle this Sentinel thing on your own?"
"Yes.")
No.
Simon had taken him at his word.
Blair had expected it to happen.
Jim wondered again just what sort of friend he had become. Where did he get off saying things
about trust and betrayal?
He felt the strong urge to throw up.
"I--I-- When you come back we can get that fixed," Jim said desperately, trying not to let the
emotion spill into his voice but failing miserably. "You'll have to fill out the paperwork again, in
triplicate, Chief," he added trying to make a joke out of it, make a joke about the whole mess.
("You know, Chief, if you want to meet nurses, there are easier ways.")
("I couldn't let you die. You owe your last month's rent.")
Jokes. Jokes had gotten him into this cross-country phone tag game.
("Chief, I don't know if I'm ready to take that trip with you.")
And now he thought jokes would get him out of it.
He was such an idiot.
But Blair, bless his soul, understood. Blair always understood even when he shouldn't. Blair was
his friend and in Sandburg's book you take a friend's weirdness and you dealt with it, even
tasteless jokes after rising from the dead.
"Paperwork," Blair said with a hoarse laugh. "The bane of my existence." The words descended
into coughing, wracking spasms that tore from his partner's chest and into Jim's, who ached in
sympathy hearing that horrible sound.
"Sandburg? Chief?" he barked over the phone. *C'mon kid, answer me.* "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah I-I'm fine," Blair gasped, taking in huge draughts of air.
"You don't sound okay," Jim said in a small voice. *Shit, why does he have to be so far away? I
can't DO anything from here.* "Just sit down, lean forward, breathe deeply." He stretched out
his hearing and heard the rustle of cloth on skin as Blair obeyed. "That's it. In and out. In and
out. Have you been eating, taking those pills on time?" he demanded in the middle of his quiet
litany, unable to help himself. He heard the sound of Sandburg nodding and breathed easier
himself. "Okay, that's good then. Just breathe." *Oh God kid, just keep breathing, don't you
ever stop.*
After several long minutes a weak voice spoke. "Sorry."
"You apologize for the dumbest things Sandburg," Jim scolded, wondering just what exactly Blair
was apologizing for, wondering why his voice kept wanting to crack and break, why his eyes
burned.
*Must be the cleaning supplies.*
But that was bullshit because Blair had bought them, and Blair always, always made sure
everything was safe for him.
Always.
"I know," Blair whispered in response. Jim could practically see and feel the warm smile that
accompanied those words: the Sandburg Special, used only on very rare occasions and to be
treasured. "g'night," Blair whispered.
"Night Chief," Jim whispered back.
click
Sitting down on the couch, he grabbed his now room temperature beer, mulling over the
conversation, trying to slow his own pounding heart after hearing Blair cough like that.
*He didn't say yes,* he realized at last. *He didn't say he wanted to come back and work with
you. Be your partner.*
("I got to have a partner I can trust.")
That's you Chief. It's only ever been you.
("Usually he had a partner along, someone to watch his back."
"You mean like you?"
"Oh yeah, beautiful, great idea, I'd love to!")
I've just got to tell you that, Chief. Then things'll be back the way they were supposed to be.
Just got to tell Sandburg.
***
The phone picked up, Sandburg talking straight out of the gate, sounding distant as if he were
using a speaker phone. "Hey Jim."
Jim waved the open letter he had in his hand as if Sandburg could see it and him, as he stood by
the phone, not even his coat off. "I got a letter from Rainier."
"Oh?" Blair said absently, a sound other than Blair on the line, sort a metallic rasping that Jim
couldn't place. He pushed the thought aside and waved the letter futilely again.
"Well, actually it was addressed to me in leu of Major Crimes." Ellison looked down at the
horrible words and wondered how worse life could get for Sandburg before he permanently threw
in the towel "They . . . uh . . . they . . ." *God, how the hell am I to tell him this?*
"Fired me," Blair piped up cheerfully, the rasping sound continuing. "Yep, I know. I refused to
take back this petition I sent before I headed down to Mexico. One of my students, Brad
Ventriss, was cheating. Turned in this other guy's term paper with all his old notes on it. I mean
how stupid does he think I am, huh? His dad's soo rich so it doesn't matter. They sicced a lawyer
on me. Fucking politics. So, how's work?"
Jim pulled his jaw up from the floor and dropped the letter. Blair was taking this all in stride
which was eerie, but his Guide had asked him a question and he answered promptly, regardless of
confusion.
"Joel's working on a murder case, I'm sort of helping. One Dennis Chung, he's a P.I.," he
continued, warming to the subject, to the possibility of hearing Blair's take on the case, just like
old times. "We've been checking clients." Jim hesitated. He couldn't just drop this. *I mean this
was Sandburg's whole life here!* "Do you want me to go yell at the Chancellor or something?
Get you're job back?" he offered tentatively.
"Nah." The rasping sound grew harsher, harder, an odd contrast to the unconcerned tone. Jim
reached out to listen to his Guide's heartbeat and found it elevated, but whether it was from the
drugs, or the strain, or the news he didn't know. "I'm sort of disillusioned with the whole Rainier
philosophy right now," Blair continued, "That, and Chancellor Edwards and the Chair of the
department both hate me."
That noise was really starting to irritate him. He could almost place it . . ."Sandburg?"
"Yeah?"
"What the hell is that noise? Are you-you cutting your hair?"
Blair hesitated with the scissors in one hand, a chunk of his hair in the other. He looked around
his place on the floor where he sat cross-legged facing the phone, realizing he'd carpeted the floor
with his curls. "Just a trim," he said keeping his voice steady as he brought the scissors up again.
"Chlorine is so not good for it."
"Oh." Jim sounded a bit stressed. He didn't like talking about the fountain, but then neither did
he, so Blair figured they were about even. "Um . . . what about you dissertation?"
snip "What about it?"
"I mean," Jim's voice continued from the tiny phone speaker, concerned, worried, and trying not
to be demanding. It was kind of funny to listen to. "Will you be able to turn it in?"
Blair nodded even though he knew that Jim couldn't see him. *Oh well, maybe he'll hear me.*
"Uh-huh. E-mailed it a couple of days ago, sent the hardcover version in." He pulled down on a
curl until it straightened almost to the tip of his nose and then savagely chopped it off. "They sent
me back a defense time. I'll be back in Cascade by then."
There was a long pause. "You *sent* it in?"
Jim really sounded stressed now; for a moment Sandburg hesitated in his destruction to wonder
why. "Yeees," he said slowly.
The speaker exploded. Sandburg could almost picture Jim leaping to his feet, pacing frantically.
If he'd been there physically, Blair knew he'd be up against a wall at this point. "WHAT THE
FUCK HAPPENED TO OUR DEAL? YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO SHOW ANYONE
ANYTHING UNLESS I READ IT FIRST!"
Oh, so that was it. *Fear-based responses. He doesn't trust you Sandburg, you idiot.* Blair
sighed tiredly. It never got any better, not even dying had helped, it seemed. *So much for my
big surprise.*
"Chill, man," he soothed, trying to keep the anger out of his voice at hearing once again
irrefutable proof of what his Sentinel really thought of him. *No anger, you're to blame,
remember?* "Deal's off. I'm not writing about you."
"You-you aren't?" Jim's voice asked in bewilderment.
"No. Changed my mind after the whole Brackett mess. I figured I write it and you end up in a
bunker in Nevada with electrodes everywhere," Blair waved his hands to illustrate the point even
though Jim was two states away and even Sentinel sight wasn't that good. "You so do not need
that headache man."
"So . . . you're doing it on closed societies?"
"Yep."
Jim sputtered for a moment and then flopped back down on the couch and thought back to that
night shift he'd pulled that Sandburg had hung around for. "Wh-what about that chapter I read?
Didn't you turn that in? Why did you write that for?"
"You didn't like it, I didn't turn it in. I wrote it for me, for you, us," Blair added hastily, the first
sign of emotion in his voice since he'd cursed Rainier. "Whatever." Jim could just imagine those
waving hands as his Guide pushed the whole issue aside. "I wrote it 'cause all the work you did; it
was important. I wasn't just testing you for the hell of it, you know. You're not a lab rat. It was
never like that. Or at least it wasn't supposed to be, but I guess maybe you thought so. I wanted
to type it up and give it to you, sort of--- sort of as a, like . . a graduation present." Here Blair's
voice got soft, sort of wistful, the shearing sound halting for a moment. It pulled at Jim, at the
Sentinel he was, guilt flooding him. "Sort of a thank you, good work, like Sentinel graduation."
Sandburg affected a pompous, booming tone of voice. "Congratulations, you are now a fully in
control, certified, protector of the tribe and Watchman, oh, and here's the instruction manual that
goes with you. Sort of a addendum to Burton's work," he added in his usual voice. "But, hey I
can delete it if you want."
"No," Jim said sharply, touched (though he'd never admit it aloud) by yet another selfless gesture
by Blair on his Sentinel's behalf. Hadn't Blair offered to destroy his notes for him, for their
friendship? Jim felt lower than slime. He'd had the opportunity to prove his trust in his Guide and
failed again, miserably. *Fuck!* "No, Chief. That's okay."
"So you're cool with all of this?" Sandburg asked tentatively.
"Yeah, yeah. I guess . . I guess I have to be," he said quietly. *But what does this mean for us?
For ME?* It sounded selfish, but his heart demanded an answer, the Sentinel demanded an
answer. *Was Blair coming back only to leave? They'd be no need for the pass if the
dissertation was done.* Congratulations on you diss Chief," he offered at last, feeling sort of
shell shocked.
"Thanks Jim." The snipping sound resumed again.
"Jeez Sandburg, how long does it take to trim hair?" Ellison asked, trying to lighten the mood.
"Longer than yours obviously," a teasing voice replied, more than willing to go along with his
Sentinel's sudden change of topic, forgetting and forgiving the earlier outburst. "Some of us are
not blessed with receding hairlines--"
"Watch it Chief, I know where you live," Jim growled.
"Not anymore Jim," Sandburg laughed, and Jim froze. That was one joke he didn't want to hear.
"Good night."
He forced his vocal cords to work. "Good night Chief."
click
The detective stared at the phone in his hands and wondered quietly just what the hell he was to
do now.
Jim Ellison, Sentinel, Detective, former Special Forces Army Ranger, and all around screw up
when it came to friendships (he'd decided it was an even better title than Sentinel of the Great
City; he didn't think he deserved that one) opened the french doors that lead to the small room
that used to be Blair's. Turning around once in the barren little space, eyes haunted, mind lost
down paths too dark to tell he failed to hear the noise coming from the fire escape.
By the time he registered the dart that had struck the back of his neck, he was already swallowed
by darkness.
Miles away, Blair Sandburg stood and went into the bathroom to check the results of his hair
trimming, wondering just how bad his sudden, out of control hacking had been.
Flipping on the lights and staring at the unfamiliar face in the mirror, Blair could only think of just
how short a distance he'd come since the last time he'd been at this cabin and life had fallen apart
around him.
end
to be continued??? only Feedback will tell a_sayyar2118@hotmail.com Be gentle. It's my first
Sentinel story.