AN: I have no claim on Jim, Blair or anything else in Cascade. This is my
first Sentinel fic, although I have read A LOT of it. The Sentinel was the
first to get me hooked on fan fic. This story is filled with Angst and
Depression and lots of Inner Turmoil. If you don't like it, don't read it.
Comments welcome, Flames will be laughed at. PLEASE REVIEW!
Post TSbyBS
Title: What I Never Let You See
Author: Neffie
It had been two weeks since the press conference that had ended the academic career of one Blair Sandburg. Two weeks since the young man stood before the sea of reporters and video cameras, and the rest of the country, and declared his entire life's work a fraud. All to protect one James Ellison. The man who had once left him in the hand's of a madwoman who drowned him in the fountain on the grounds of the university that had been a place of happy memories, the one place where he had felt at home. The only place he had ever stayed at long enough to even consider calling home.
In the days following that destructive event, there had been a shoot out that had wracked Major Crimes, the injuries of many that he considered friends, and the offer of a new life. It had all been too much too quickly. Blair had spent many of the day's following Captain Banks' offer sitting in his room, staring blankly at the wall, trying to make sense of the jumble that was his mind. Jim had tried many times to coax him to speak what was on his mind, but there seemed to be no words that could possibly give justice to the ache he felt inside. He was happy that he had been able to give Jim his life back… but at what cost? Once you have given all you have to give, what's left? Everything seemed to be spiraling out of control, and nothing he said or did or felt seemed to have any affect on the twist of fate that had been dealt to him. Overcome by feelings of helplessness and weakness, he desperately seeked any kind of control over any aspect of his life that he could grab hold of. Alone in his room, locked in silence, Blair Sandburg made his decision. Nodding his head slightly to himself, he once again gave into the impulse that had plagued him when he was younger, the one thing that he honestly felt that he could control, and no one could take away from him.
As Detective Jim Ellison entered the loft he shared with his partner and best friend, he was assaulted by the overwhelming scent of antiquity, made familiar to him in the past 4 years by the miscellaneous old tomes and artifacts that the anthropologist would bring home, eyes sparkling and words flowing nonstop as he shared his knowledge of old legends and facts about the ancient items. A soft sigh escaped past the Sentinel's lips as he stopped his own thoughts. Blair was no longer an anthropologist, and it had been quite some time since Jim had last seen that vibrant glow to his guide's deep blue eyes. Now the young man remained silent, and most of the time kept himself locked away in his room. Jim had tried desperately to get his friend to share what was on that overactive mind of his, but his attempts were only met with half-hearted shrugs and insincere response of "I'm fine" or "There's nothing to talk about". There seemed to be nothing that the detective could do to stop Blair from slipping further into the depression that had wrapped black, cold fingers around the once tender heart.
The sight that greeted Jim as he stepped further into his home was one of his young partner sitting on the floor in the middle of seven boxes with "Social Sciences Dept." scrawled on the side. Red-rimmed eyes underlined by dark circles glanced up at him from behind a thin pair of glasses and a half muttered "Hi Jim," was the only acknowledgment the young ex-student seemed to be willing to give him as he continued unpacking the various boxes, revealing more and more artifacts that Jim vaguely recognized as once being scattered around Blair's office.
"Hey Chief," Jim flashed a friendly smiled that went unnoticed on the obviously troubled young man, "Where'd all this come from?"
Refusing to once more raise his eyes to the detective, Blair remained seated hunched over a certain clay pot, his long auburn curls creating a veil covering the expressive face and once lively eyes. "Sidney sent these over this morning. They were purchased under my name and he felt that it was right that I should have them." Jim cringed at the sound of his partner's voice. For lack of a better word, it sounded… lifeless. The Sentinel watched his guide run trembling fingers across the delicate painted pottery before setting it to the side. As the young man reached over to set the pot down amidst the others that he had unpacked, his sleeve rode up on his arm slightly, and the Sentinel gasped at what he saw on his Guide's right wrist.
"Blair," he started as he grabbed the young man's wrist and pulled him to his feet in one smooth motion. "What have you done to yourself?!" the Sentinel questioned loudly, unable to contain his growing fear. He felt his emotions growing rapidly out of control as he watched his Guide's eyes grow wide in fear. Pushing the flannel sleeve further up, revealing the jagged, long cut running the length of the inside forearm of his friend. Jim's eyes burned into the eyes of his friend waiting for an explanation, any explanation beside the one that was rapidly forming in his mind. Instead, Blair simply averted his eyes and began to struggle against the tight hold his much larger partner kept on his wrist. He tried desperately to stop the shaking that seemed to race throughout his entire body. Until this moment, he had been able to put up a brave front, but the façade was quickly crumbling underneath the ice blue lasers.
Jim cursed himself for ignoring the fact that his Guide had been hurting. He knew the young grad student too well to believe that he's having an easy time dealing with this, he knew better than to be fooled by the hollow smiles Blair had flashed to everyone that day in the bullpen. Yet, he had let it go on. Part of him had wanted to believe that Sandburg was fine, that he would bounce back from this just as easily as he had every other obstacle and trauma that had been placed in his life since he had began riding with the detective. Despite super-enhanced sight, Ellison had kept a blind eye to the steady wasting away of his best friend's heart and soul. He cursed himself for ever entertaining the notion that all was fine. How could anyone have an easy time dealing with the fact that they had just sacrificed their career, their friends, their life, for someone that had accused them of betrayal and rejected them, pushed them away, not once, but twice? And now all the once vibrant young man had left of the life that had been the past fifteen years were the journals he had kept, and the seven cardboard boxes sitting on the floor. Jim's jaw clenched as his eyes witnessed the tiny tremors running through his Guide's too thin body as he finally gave up his struggles against the ex-Ranger's iron grip. Jesus, when was the last time the kid ate?, the detective distractedly thought to himself, shocked at the changes that he just now seemed to be noticing in his partner, once again cursing himself for not taking better care of the precious life disintegrating before his very eyes. His face was ghostly pale dark circles outlined underneath his eyes, and his clothes hung far too loosely off the anthropologist's frame. He could hear Blair's heart trying to race out of his chest, his breathing becoming shallower.
Ellison knew that his young partner suffered from panic attacks in moments of high stress. When he was a child, his mother Naomi had seen it fit to place him in a psychiatrist's office to let the doctors try and repair the damage done to an innocencent and tender young psyche by never knowing where he would be the next morning, never knowing the meaning of "home", and too often finding himself in the supposed care of adults that would much rather spend their days in a drugged stupor rather than tending to the emotional and physical needs of such an empathic child, and too often times did just that. Blair seemed to be teetering on the edge of one at that very moment. The seemingly hard-nosed detective had had far too many experiences with his partner's overwhelming anxiety.
Anyone would have expected the mild-mannered anthropologist to run away screaming by the first week of being partnered with "Stone Faced" Ellison, but despite everyone's expectations, each time the young observer had bounced back. The only lingering traces were the ever-present nightmares that seemed to have plagued his slumber each night the past few weeks. Has it finally become too much for him? The Sentinel couldn't help but wonder. That was certainly what the evidence in front of him pointed to. Jim shook his head in attempts to clear it, wondering briefly if it was possible to zone on thoughts and memories alone, and brought his attention back to the problem at hand.
At that moment, Blair's legs gave out on him and he fell to his knees on the hard floor, with his arm still hanging above him, yet to be released by the ex-army officer. Jim sank down to kneel on the floor beside him and, releasing his grip on the slender wrist, brought his hands up to place themselves on his Guide's shuddering shoulders. The young shaman's lungs seemed to refuse to work with him and he started breathing in shallow gasps. He was starting to hyperventilate; the panic attack had kicked in full force. Terrified, yet strangely vacant, deep blue eyes raised and seemed to look straight through his Sentinel like he was not even there. "C'mon Chief, you're starting to scare me. Nice easy breaths kid, c'mon," Jim tried desperately to calm the young man, but received no response. Blair didn't even seem to hear the soothing words and continued struggling to breathe. Jim's eyes detected the faintest shade of blue starting to form on the grad student's lips. Okay, now I'm scared, Ellison admitted to himself. "Sandburg!" he tried again, louder this time, as he began to feel desperate. "BLAIR!"
The Sentinel felt his Guide's whole body tense just before he fell limp, falling forward into the strong embrace of his Blessed Protector, the slender body collapsing against the hard body of his Sentinel, as the previously panicked heart seemed to instantly calm. With a quick sensory sweep the Protector realized that his guide's breathing had evened out and his heart rate was fast approaching it's normal rhythm. For some reason, the guardian was not comforted by this, although he was no longer as anxious as before. The knot of dread that had settled in the stomach of the detective started to grow. Something is definitely wrong here. Came Ellison's thoughts as his jaw clenched. Don't worry Chief, your Blessed Protector is gonna fix this.
Jim cruelly stabbed at the defenseless eggs he was preparing. He could feel his emotions battling for control. Fear, helplessness, and anger.
After Blair had fainted in his arms, Jim had carried him to his room and laid him on the small futon. He had then examined the gash on the inside of his young partner's wrist. It was relatively shallow, and did not even require stitches; but that made it no less disturbing to the once appointed Blessed Protector. Jim believed it had come from a knife and, after bandaging the wound carefully, a quick check of Sandburg's trusty Swiss army knife, confirmed his suspicions with the red smudges along the blade.
Blair had not awoken till that morning. He shuffled out of his bedroom and stole a fearful glance at Jim. The detective had barely opened his mouth when Blair's soft voice pleaded, "Please Jim, just let me take a shower first okay?" The sound of complete defeat in the usual bubbly voice was enough to convince Ellison that the conversation could wait a few minutes, but no longer than that. He had gave a slight nod and watched as his hurting Guide retreated into the bathroom.
His torture session with the breakfast food ended abruptly when a knock sounded at the door.
As Simon Banks knocked on the door of 307, he knew something's wrong. It was habit of Jim to usually open the door before the captain could even raise his hand to knock. It was the detective's claim that he could smell the cigars as soon as Banks stepped on the elevator. Although he usually complained about how unnerving and obnoxious it was when his friend did that, Simon couldn't help but admit that when he didn't, it was down right worrisome. The door finally opened and the large man was greeted by one pissed-off looking detective, jaw clenched so tightly that Simon would have sworn that it would break. With a slight nod of his head and a terse "Morning, Sir," Ellison invited in his superior office and returned to the kitchen. Warning bells went off in Simon's head, first the door thing and now he's calling me "sir," going back to what the rest of us down at the department have started referring to as the Pre-Sandburg era, the days of Stone-Faced Ellison.
With a quick glance the captain noticed that Ellison's usually vibrant young shadow was nowhere to be found, but the sound of the shower starting alerted Banks the observer's location.
Simon Banks had not made it to the rank of Police Captain without knowing when to be cautious, so it was with the friendliest manner that he approached his disgruntled detective. Retrieving plates from the cabinets, Simon started to set the table, three places of course. Jim was silent as he added a few more strips of bacon to fry. "How's he holding up, Jim?" Simon asked in what he prayed was a compassionate tone. Ice blue eyes stayed focused only on the task of preparing breakfast, and no answer came for a long moment. Just as the large captain was positive that his close friend was going to pull a classic Ellison maneuver and shut him out, he took a deep breath and reached up to run a hand through his short hair. "How do you think he's holding up, Simon?" came his tense yet sorrowful reply. "How would you be holding up if the world thought that you were a fraud, every friend you had thought you were nothing but a liar. What would you do if they kicked you off the force and told you never to show your face again?" Ellison was vaguely aware of the hysterical sound of his voice, but at the moment, he really didn't care. William Ellison's oldest son had never been one able to deal very well with any emotion besides anger. Caring was something that had been unknown in his life until the last few years, until a longhaired neo-hippie freak had managed to worm his way into a mostly hardened heart.
Banks cut him off at that moment, "Jim, listen the kid's tough, he'll get through this. He's always bounced back." The rugged captain could hear how pathetic and desperate his assurances sounded to his own ears, and wasn't quite sure who he was trying harder to convince.
Cold ice blue lasers pinned the large man in his spot. "He doesn't seem to have a lot left to bounce back to, now does he?" the Sentinel growled.
Jim brushed past his superior and headed upstairs towards his room. The sounds of the shower had silenced. Jim stood at the top of the stairs pulling on a plaid overshirt when he uttered a mumbled curse. "Damnit," he hissed as he headed back down the steps. "Sandburg's having another panic attack," he quickly explained to the confused looking captain. Suddenly he froze mid-step, nostrils flaring as if smelling something. "Son of a-" he cursed as he broke into a run, racing towards the bathroom. Simon barely had time to process everything as Ellison began banging on the door to the bathroom. "Sandburg?" Receiving no response, the hot-tempered Sentinel kicked the door in.
The overwhelming smell almost flattened the Sentinel as the door flew open. The scent of blood, Blair's blood, His Guide's blood, was so thick, he felt as if it were choking him, so strong he could literally taste it. The coppery, unique scent of his partner's blood that had become far too familiar to him in the past three years was enough to make the detective sick to his stomach. He felt himself slipping away, zoning out on the smell alone. It wasn't until his eyes locked on to the bright redness that the nearly-zoned Sentinel snapped back to his senses, literally. Blair was on the floor, slouched against the wall. His arms hung limply and blood was running freely down them from dozens of what looks like razor cuts there. Ellison's straight edge razor had been discarded on the cold tile beside him. Drops of crimson were falling onto the floor. The bandage that had been on his right forearm had been taken off and the wound was barely visible under the numerous fresher cuts criss-crossing over it. In desperation, the Sentinel sent out his senses to search for an intruder, but they only confirmed what he already knew and didn't want to believe. They were alone. The young Guide had done this to himself.
Jim suddenly noticed that two large blue eyes were looking up at him, that same strange, eerie, calm, empty stare in his eyes like there had been yesterday afternoon in the loft. Ellison watched mesmerized as it changed to a look of fear mixed with shame and embarrassment. The detective was still standing there in the doorway, with Simon right behind him, both of the large men too shocked to act, when Blair finally spoke. He lowered his head, hiding himself behind a veil of auburn curls. "I'm sorry Jim. I'll clean it up," he whispered in a small, defeated voice that neither man had ever heard him use. The Sentinel was now shocked beyond belief, as he watched his friend pick up a towel and begins wiping in vain at one of the many spots of red on the tile floor. For God's sake, the kid is bleeding to death on our bathroom floor and he's worried about cleaning it up?!?!?! Being careful to make no sudden moves, Jim crouched down beside his frightened partner on the floor and grabbed him by the shoulders, stopping his cleaning. The younger man flinched and looked up at his older partner, eyes wide. He seemed terrified of his best friend, and Ellison felt pain deep in his chest. "I'm s-s-sorry, Jim. I-I-I didn't… I just…" came the stuttered response, as his Blessed Protector felt him start to shake all over. It was a miracle that Jim kept his mouth from gaping open in astonishment, What the hell does he think he's apologizing for???
"Chief, just calm down, alright? Let's get you off the floor and get these cuts cleaned up and taken care of before we do anything, okay Chief?" the larger man soothed in a surprisingly gentle voice. The unsteady young man accepted the offered hand, but pulled away as soon as he found his balance.
"Don't worry Jim, I can take care of it," he quickly and nervously assured, as he wrapped his arms around his torso in a vain attempt to try and hide the wounds on the insides of his forearms. He only succeeded in smearing the blood across his white t-shirt. He dipped his head once more, letting his hair fall into his too expressive face, in attempt to hide the emotions there, trying to close the open book that his eyes too often made to his soul. The pain in Ellison's chest changed into an intense ache that made it hard to breathe. Simon also felt his heart beginning to break at the sight of the now despondent and forlorn young man standing before them. Jim took a deep breath just as his Guide had taught him to, and focused on taking out any sign of anger from his face, voice, and actions, knowing that the young man standing so nervously before him was in no shape to know where that anger was directed towards. Never again did Jim want to see such fear in his deep blues, fear of him.
"Chief," he said softly and gently as he brought his hand up to his best friend's chin and turned his head up till he could meet his gaze. "I'm your Blessed Protector, remember? Let me take care of it." Blair gave the slightest nod in agreement, so weak that anyone besides a Sentinel would have missed it. Slowly, he allowed himself to be led out to the living room and remained impassive as Jim pressed him easily to sit down on the couch. "Simon, could you get the first aid kit?" Jim requested, knowing that the captain would be grateful for a minor escape. The captain quickly headed in the direction of the bathroom, eager for the short reprieve. Shutters came down behind Jim Ellison eyes as he pulled a once familiar maneuver and clamped down on his emotions, tighter than a drum. He knew that he couldn't deal with his own feelings, not while taking care of Blair's apparently fragile psyche at the same time. His partner and best friend was self-destructing right in front before his eyes and he felt helpless, not having the slightest idea what to do.
Simon stepped into the bathroom and let out the breath that he had been holding ever since he had heard his best detective exclaim that he had smelled blood coming from the bathroom that Sandburg was in. Despite Banks' claims, the normally bouncy young man had become more than just an annoyance, he had become a trusted friend. Jim Ellison had not been the only one that had spent many sleepless vigils over the bed of one trouble magnet of a police observer. Somehow or another, Blair Sandburg had made his place in the lives and hearts of every detective in Major Crimes. Not an easy task by any stretch of the imagination, in fact, it was down right impossible. But Blair Sandburg defied logic and all stereotypes. His empathic and trusting nature made him easy to get along with and easy to care for, unfortunately, too often it made him just as easy a target. So many times, that blind and loving trust had been betrayed and placed the civilian in places of great danger, and usually exposed his slender body to physical injury, yet his soul seemed to remain untouched. Until now at least.
Simon couldn't help but wonder now if the warning signs had been all along. It was obvious now that his young friend was hurting, right down to very core of his soul. Was this last blow that fate dealt him the one that would prove to be irrevocable? The one that would take away that shimmer of innocence and light that shone from those deep blue eyes once and for all? The large man could not stop a shudder that snaked down his spine at the very idea. To have that livelihood taken from Blair, it would make him nothing but a shell of the person he had been, it would destroy everything that defined him.
And if the Guide was destroyed, even in spirit, what would become of the Sentinel? Simon had never claimed to know anything about, or even cared to venture into, the mystical world that seemed to contain his two friends. He rarely questioned them, and chalked up their reasoning to "a Sentinel thing." Whether it was a Sentinel thing or a Jim and Blair thing, Simon remembered all too clearly the devestation and heartbreak of Ellison as he had vainly performed CPR on Sandburg's once lifeless body, the tears streaming down the stoic detective's face as he had shouted over and over "This isn't happening!" Banks himself had wiped furiously at his own eyes when the paramedics had told them it was too late. Banks had known then, with no uncertainty, that if one member of his best team were to die, the other would quickly follow.
Returning to the task at hand, he retrieved the first aid kit. Before stepping back out the door, he took a deep breath and said silently to himself, "I am… relaxed."
Jim had retrieved a damp dish cloth from the kitchen and was busy tenderly wiping the blood off of Blair's arms when Simon returned with the first aid kit. The young man was trembling a little less than he had before but still refused to look either of the two other men in the eye. Jim began dabbing a bit at the cuts with some peroxide to clean them off. Blair winced, and Simon watch as his best detective's jaw tightened with each little gasp and flinch. Besides the occasional twitch, Blair remained unresponsive, watching Jim's ministrations, seemingly impassive to the whole scene. Sentinel eyes examined the cuts closely, assuring himself that none required stitches. They were all the same as the long gash he had discovered the day before. Satisfied, he reached for some bandages to put on them. As the Sentinel positioned them over the cuts, his eyes caught something that had never been noticed before, or if it had been, it had been dismissed as nothing. Zooming in on sight, the image came into focus: Dozens and dozens of small scars, years faded, so much that normal eyes would never be able to see them. Shocked at this new discovery, Jim's hold on the slender wrist tightened unconsciously, elicting a tiny yelp from Blair. What has my Guide been keeping from me? Jim questioned as the puzzle that was Blair's past seemed to grow more and more unsolvable.
Sky blue eyes glared at the trembling young man, who remained oblivious to the concern directed towards him. Once more, Jim found himself swallowing his anger. He was angry at the events that had taken place, angry at himself for not noticing that his Guide's very soul was sick, and angry for never noticing the now apparent scars before; but he was not angry at Blair, and he had to make certain the kid knew that or there would be no hope of finding out what was going on in that over-active brain beneath the mop of brown curls.
With a sigh, Jim patted Blair on the shoulder and then, turning to his captain, he motioned towards the kitchen. Out of earshot of the unresponsive police observer, Jim talked quietly to his superior officer. "Simon, I think we can handle it from here…"
"Don't even try it Ellison!" Banks said in an authorative, albeit hushed tone. "You are not the only one who cares about the kid, you know that?"
Jim nodded solemnly, but with a touch of a smile playing at his lips at the captain actually admitting the fact that he cared about Blair almost as much as he did. Although touched by his captain's concern, he knew that it would be an almost impossible task to get Blair to open up to him, much less to open up in front of the gruff captain as well. As Jim told Simon as much, he felt relieved when the larger man nodded his head in agreement.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right Jim," Simon admitted as he brought one hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "Just don't try and shut me out, okay? This whole thing has been hard on both of you." Jim resisted the urge to grin broadly at the fact that his cantankerous captain was beginning to sound a lot like a certain ex-anthropologist.
As he closed the door behind Simon, the Sentinel looked his young shaman over once more. The curly head had remained bowed, and although the trembling had lessened, it was still far too obvious to Sentinel eyes, the oppresing silence that was so uncharacteristic of Blair was the most disturbing part of the whole scene. With no idea where to begin, Jim crossed the room and found himself thoughtfully staring out at the Cascade skyline.
"What do you fear?" his reflection seemed to ask. "What do you fear?" The spirit guide's warning echoed through the Sentinel's mind as he stared out the balcony doors. His mind flashed back to that ancient grotto, images of death and pain shown to him by the jaguar, making him face what he had wanted nothing more than to forget, His Guide, partner, best friend and brother in all but blood, lay dying… dead. He could all too vividly recall the feeling of the cold lifeless skin against his fingertips, and the wretched silence born in the absence of his Guide's heartbeat. He tuned his hearing towards the young man sitting silently on the couch. He monitered heart rate and respiration, finding a sense of peace there. He had found himself doing that often in the past year, ever since what had happened at that fountain. Many nights he had awakened from his own breed of night terrors and immediately he would search out that perfect rhythm that had become every bit as familiar as his own. To think that for a few horrible, unforgetable moments those sounds had been gone, thought never to be heard again caused an icy grip to wind tightly around the stoic detective's heart. He closed his eyes briefly and could see Simon's desperate brown eyes, "I don't hear a heartbeat. Do you? Do you hear a heartbeat?" He could only stand and stare disbelieving, "This can't be happening…" mind and soul screamed in denial. But no, he hadn't be able to hear that precious heartbeat.
Bringing himself back to the present, Jim shook himself out of such morbid thoughts. With help and guidance from the panther, he had been able to call that heartbeat back to him that day. Blair was sitting on the couch not ten feet away, breathing, heart beating, warm and dry. Closing his eyes, he took a deep cleansing breath and immediately regretted it. The smell of blood was still thick to his sensitive nose. He had all been able to practically taste it ever since he had burst in through the bathroom door. He had been able to call Blair's soul back to him once before. Would he be able to do it again? Uncertainty and self-doubt plagued him because he knew that wounds inflicted to the soul took much longer to heal than physical ones, and that was if they ever healed at all.
It was then that a quiet yet sorrowful voice broke the staggering silence that had filled the loft, "What do you want me to say Jim?"
Post TSbyBS
Title: What I Never Let You See
Author: Neffie
It had been two weeks since the press conference that had ended the academic career of one Blair Sandburg. Two weeks since the young man stood before the sea of reporters and video cameras, and the rest of the country, and declared his entire life's work a fraud. All to protect one James Ellison. The man who had once left him in the hand's of a madwoman who drowned him in the fountain on the grounds of the university that had been a place of happy memories, the one place where he had felt at home. The only place he had ever stayed at long enough to even consider calling home.
In the days following that destructive event, there had been a shoot out that had wracked Major Crimes, the injuries of many that he considered friends, and the offer of a new life. It had all been too much too quickly. Blair had spent many of the day's following Captain Banks' offer sitting in his room, staring blankly at the wall, trying to make sense of the jumble that was his mind. Jim had tried many times to coax him to speak what was on his mind, but there seemed to be no words that could possibly give justice to the ache he felt inside. He was happy that he had been able to give Jim his life back… but at what cost? Once you have given all you have to give, what's left? Everything seemed to be spiraling out of control, and nothing he said or did or felt seemed to have any affect on the twist of fate that had been dealt to him. Overcome by feelings of helplessness and weakness, he desperately seeked any kind of control over any aspect of his life that he could grab hold of. Alone in his room, locked in silence, Blair Sandburg made his decision. Nodding his head slightly to himself, he once again gave into the impulse that had plagued him when he was younger, the one thing that he honestly felt that he could control, and no one could take away from him.
As Detective Jim Ellison entered the loft he shared with his partner and best friend, he was assaulted by the overwhelming scent of antiquity, made familiar to him in the past 4 years by the miscellaneous old tomes and artifacts that the anthropologist would bring home, eyes sparkling and words flowing nonstop as he shared his knowledge of old legends and facts about the ancient items. A soft sigh escaped past the Sentinel's lips as he stopped his own thoughts. Blair was no longer an anthropologist, and it had been quite some time since Jim had last seen that vibrant glow to his guide's deep blue eyes. Now the young man remained silent, and most of the time kept himself locked away in his room. Jim had tried desperately to get his friend to share what was on that overactive mind of his, but his attempts were only met with half-hearted shrugs and insincere response of "I'm fine" or "There's nothing to talk about". There seemed to be nothing that the detective could do to stop Blair from slipping further into the depression that had wrapped black, cold fingers around the once tender heart.
The sight that greeted Jim as he stepped further into his home was one of his young partner sitting on the floor in the middle of seven boxes with "Social Sciences Dept." scrawled on the side. Red-rimmed eyes underlined by dark circles glanced up at him from behind a thin pair of glasses and a half muttered "Hi Jim," was the only acknowledgment the young ex-student seemed to be willing to give him as he continued unpacking the various boxes, revealing more and more artifacts that Jim vaguely recognized as once being scattered around Blair's office.
"Hey Chief," Jim flashed a friendly smiled that went unnoticed on the obviously troubled young man, "Where'd all this come from?"
Refusing to once more raise his eyes to the detective, Blair remained seated hunched over a certain clay pot, his long auburn curls creating a veil covering the expressive face and once lively eyes. "Sidney sent these over this morning. They were purchased under my name and he felt that it was right that I should have them." Jim cringed at the sound of his partner's voice. For lack of a better word, it sounded… lifeless. The Sentinel watched his guide run trembling fingers across the delicate painted pottery before setting it to the side. As the young man reached over to set the pot down amidst the others that he had unpacked, his sleeve rode up on his arm slightly, and the Sentinel gasped at what he saw on his Guide's right wrist.
"Blair," he started as he grabbed the young man's wrist and pulled him to his feet in one smooth motion. "What have you done to yourself?!" the Sentinel questioned loudly, unable to contain his growing fear. He felt his emotions growing rapidly out of control as he watched his Guide's eyes grow wide in fear. Pushing the flannel sleeve further up, revealing the jagged, long cut running the length of the inside forearm of his friend. Jim's eyes burned into the eyes of his friend waiting for an explanation, any explanation beside the one that was rapidly forming in his mind. Instead, Blair simply averted his eyes and began to struggle against the tight hold his much larger partner kept on his wrist. He tried desperately to stop the shaking that seemed to race throughout his entire body. Until this moment, he had been able to put up a brave front, but the façade was quickly crumbling underneath the ice blue lasers.
Jim cursed himself for ignoring the fact that his Guide had been hurting. He knew the young grad student too well to believe that he's having an easy time dealing with this, he knew better than to be fooled by the hollow smiles Blair had flashed to everyone that day in the bullpen. Yet, he had let it go on. Part of him had wanted to believe that Sandburg was fine, that he would bounce back from this just as easily as he had every other obstacle and trauma that had been placed in his life since he had began riding with the detective. Despite super-enhanced sight, Ellison had kept a blind eye to the steady wasting away of his best friend's heart and soul. He cursed himself for ever entertaining the notion that all was fine. How could anyone have an easy time dealing with the fact that they had just sacrificed their career, their friends, their life, for someone that had accused them of betrayal and rejected them, pushed them away, not once, but twice? And now all the once vibrant young man had left of the life that had been the past fifteen years were the journals he had kept, and the seven cardboard boxes sitting on the floor. Jim's jaw clenched as his eyes witnessed the tiny tremors running through his Guide's too thin body as he finally gave up his struggles against the ex-Ranger's iron grip. Jesus, when was the last time the kid ate?, the detective distractedly thought to himself, shocked at the changes that he just now seemed to be noticing in his partner, once again cursing himself for not taking better care of the precious life disintegrating before his very eyes. His face was ghostly pale dark circles outlined underneath his eyes, and his clothes hung far too loosely off the anthropologist's frame. He could hear Blair's heart trying to race out of his chest, his breathing becoming shallower.
Ellison knew that his young partner suffered from panic attacks in moments of high stress. When he was a child, his mother Naomi had seen it fit to place him in a psychiatrist's office to let the doctors try and repair the damage done to an innocencent and tender young psyche by never knowing where he would be the next morning, never knowing the meaning of "home", and too often finding himself in the supposed care of adults that would much rather spend their days in a drugged stupor rather than tending to the emotional and physical needs of such an empathic child, and too often times did just that. Blair seemed to be teetering on the edge of one at that very moment. The seemingly hard-nosed detective had had far too many experiences with his partner's overwhelming anxiety.
Anyone would have expected the mild-mannered anthropologist to run away screaming by the first week of being partnered with "Stone Faced" Ellison, but despite everyone's expectations, each time the young observer had bounced back. The only lingering traces were the ever-present nightmares that seemed to have plagued his slumber each night the past few weeks. Has it finally become too much for him? The Sentinel couldn't help but wonder. That was certainly what the evidence in front of him pointed to. Jim shook his head in attempts to clear it, wondering briefly if it was possible to zone on thoughts and memories alone, and brought his attention back to the problem at hand.
At that moment, Blair's legs gave out on him and he fell to his knees on the hard floor, with his arm still hanging above him, yet to be released by the ex-army officer. Jim sank down to kneel on the floor beside him and, releasing his grip on the slender wrist, brought his hands up to place themselves on his Guide's shuddering shoulders. The young shaman's lungs seemed to refuse to work with him and he started breathing in shallow gasps. He was starting to hyperventilate; the panic attack had kicked in full force. Terrified, yet strangely vacant, deep blue eyes raised and seemed to look straight through his Sentinel like he was not even there. "C'mon Chief, you're starting to scare me. Nice easy breaths kid, c'mon," Jim tried desperately to calm the young man, but received no response. Blair didn't even seem to hear the soothing words and continued struggling to breathe. Jim's eyes detected the faintest shade of blue starting to form on the grad student's lips. Okay, now I'm scared, Ellison admitted to himself. "Sandburg!" he tried again, louder this time, as he began to feel desperate. "BLAIR!"
The Sentinel felt his Guide's whole body tense just before he fell limp, falling forward into the strong embrace of his Blessed Protector, the slender body collapsing against the hard body of his Sentinel, as the previously panicked heart seemed to instantly calm. With a quick sensory sweep the Protector realized that his guide's breathing had evened out and his heart rate was fast approaching it's normal rhythm. For some reason, the guardian was not comforted by this, although he was no longer as anxious as before. The knot of dread that had settled in the stomach of the detective started to grow. Something is definitely wrong here. Came Ellison's thoughts as his jaw clenched. Don't worry Chief, your Blessed Protector is gonna fix this.
Jim cruelly stabbed at the defenseless eggs he was preparing. He could feel his emotions battling for control. Fear, helplessness, and anger.
After Blair had fainted in his arms, Jim had carried him to his room and laid him on the small futon. He had then examined the gash on the inside of his young partner's wrist. It was relatively shallow, and did not even require stitches; but that made it no less disturbing to the once appointed Blessed Protector. Jim believed it had come from a knife and, after bandaging the wound carefully, a quick check of Sandburg's trusty Swiss army knife, confirmed his suspicions with the red smudges along the blade.
Blair had not awoken till that morning. He shuffled out of his bedroom and stole a fearful glance at Jim. The detective had barely opened his mouth when Blair's soft voice pleaded, "Please Jim, just let me take a shower first okay?" The sound of complete defeat in the usual bubbly voice was enough to convince Ellison that the conversation could wait a few minutes, but no longer than that. He had gave a slight nod and watched as his hurting Guide retreated into the bathroom.
His torture session with the breakfast food ended abruptly when a knock sounded at the door.
As Simon Banks knocked on the door of 307, he knew something's wrong. It was habit of Jim to usually open the door before the captain could even raise his hand to knock. It was the detective's claim that he could smell the cigars as soon as Banks stepped on the elevator. Although he usually complained about how unnerving and obnoxious it was when his friend did that, Simon couldn't help but admit that when he didn't, it was down right worrisome. The door finally opened and the large man was greeted by one pissed-off looking detective, jaw clenched so tightly that Simon would have sworn that it would break. With a slight nod of his head and a terse "Morning, Sir," Ellison invited in his superior office and returned to the kitchen. Warning bells went off in Simon's head, first the door thing and now he's calling me "sir," going back to what the rest of us down at the department have started referring to as the Pre-Sandburg era, the days of Stone-Faced Ellison.
With a quick glance the captain noticed that Ellison's usually vibrant young shadow was nowhere to be found, but the sound of the shower starting alerted Banks the observer's location.
Simon Banks had not made it to the rank of Police Captain without knowing when to be cautious, so it was with the friendliest manner that he approached his disgruntled detective. Retrieving plates from the cabinets, Simon started to set the table, three places of course. Jim was silent as he added a few more strips of bacon to fry. "How's he holding up, Jim?" Simon asked in what he prayed was a compassionate tone. Ice blue eyes stayed focused only on the task of preparing breakfast, and no answer came for a long moment. Just as the large captain was positive that his close friend was going to pull a classic Ellison maneuver and shut him out, he took a deep breath and reached up to run a hand through his short hair. "How do you think he's holding up, Simon?" came his tense yet sorrowful reply. "How would you be holding up if the world thought that you were a fraud, every friend you had thought you were nothing but a liar. What would you do if they kicked you off the force and told you never to show your face again?" Ellison was vaguely aware of the hysterical sound of his voice, but at the moment, he really didn't care. William Ellison's oldest son had never been one able to deal very well with any emotion besides anger. Caring was something that had been unknown in his life until the last few years, until a longhaired neo-hippie freak had managed to worm his way into a mostly hardened heart.
Banks cut him off at that moment, "Jim, listen the kid's tough, he'll get through this. He's always bounced back." The rugged captain could hear how pathetic and desperate his assurances sounded to his own ears, and wasn't quite sure who he was trying harder to convince.
Cold ice blue lasers pinned the large man in his spot. "He doesn't seem to have a lot left to bounce back to, now does he?" the Sentinel growled.
Jim brushed past his superior and headed upstairs towards his room. The sounds of the shower had silenced. Jim stood at the top of the stairs pulling on a plaid overshirt when he uttered a mumbled curse. "Damnit," he hissed as he headed back down the steps. "Sandburg's having another panic attack," he quickly explained to the confused looking captain. Suddenly he froze mid-step, nostrils flaring as if smelling something. "Son of a-" he cursed as he broke into a run, racing towards the bathroom. Simon barely had time to process everything as Ellison began banging on the door to the bathroom. "Sandburg?" Receiving no response, the hot-tempered Sentinel kicked the door in.
The overwhelming smell almost flattened the Sentinel as the door flew open. The scent of blood, Blair's blood, His Guide's blood, was so thick, he felt as if it were choking him, so strong he could literally taste it. The coppery, unique scent of his partner's blood that had become far too familiar to him in the past three years was enough to make the detective sick to his stomach. He felt himself slipping away, zoning out on the smell alone. It wasn't until his eyes locked on to the bright redness that the nearly-zoned Sentinel snapped back to his senses, literally. Blair was on the floor, slouched against the wall. His arms hung limply and blood was running freely down them from dozens of what looks like razor cuts there. Ellison's straight edge razor had been discarded on the cold tile beside him. Drops of crimson were falling onto the floor. The bandage that had been on his right forearm had been taken off and the wound was barely visible under the numerous fresher cuts criss-crossing over it. In desperation, the Sentinel sent out his senses to search for an intruder, but they only confirmed what he already knew and didn't want to believe. They were alone. The young Guide had done this to himself.
Jim suddenly noticed that two large blue eyes were looking up at him, that same strange, eerie, calm, empty stare in his eyes like there had been yesterday afternoon in the loft. Ellison watched mesmerized as it changed to a look of fear mixed with shame and embarrassment. The detective was still standing there in the doorway, with Simon right behind him, both of the large men too shocked to act, when Blair finally spoke. He lowered his head, hiding himself behind a veil of auburn curls. "I'm sorry Jim. I'll clean it up," he whispered in a small, defeated voice that neither man had ever heard him use. The Sentinel was now shocked beyond belief, as he watched his friend pick up a towel and begins wiping in vain at one of the many spots of red on the tile floor. For God's sake, the kid is bleeding to death on our bathroom floor and he's worried about cleaning it up?!?!?! Being careful to make no sudden moves, Jim crouched down beside his frightened partner on the floor and grabbed him by the shoulders, stopping his cleaning. The younger man flinched and looked up at his older partner, eyes wide. He seemed terrified of his best friend, and Ellison felt pain deep in his chest. "I'm s-s-sorry, Jim. I-I-I didn't… I just…" came the stuttered response, as his Blessed Protector felt him start to shake all over. It was a miracle that Jim kept his mouth from gaping open in astonishment, What the hell does he think he's apologizing for???
"Chief, just calm down, alright? Let's get you off the floor and get these cuts cleaned up and taken care of before we do anything, okay Chief?" the larger man soothed in a surprisingly gentle voice. The unsteady young man accepted the offered hand, but pulled away as soon as he found his balance.
"Don't worry Jim, I can take care of it," he quickly and nervously assured, as he wrapped his arms around his torso in a vain attempt to try and hide the wounds on the insides of his forearms. He only succeeded in smearing the blood across his white t-shirt. He dipped his head once more, letting his hair fall into his too expressive face, in attempt to hide the emotions there, trying to close the open book that his eyes too often made to his soul. The pain in Ellison's chest changed into an intense ache that made it hard to breathe. Simon also felt his heart beginning to break at the sight of the now despondent and forlorn young man standing before them. Jim took a deep breath just as his Guide had taught him to, and focused on taking out any sign of anger from his face, voice, and actions, knowing that the young man standing so nervously before him was in no shape to know where that anger was directed towards. Never again did Jim want to see such fear in his deep blues, fear of him.
"Chief," he said softly and gently as he brought his hand up to his best friend's chin and turned his head up till he could meet his gaze. "I'm your Blessed Protector, remember? Let me take care of it." Blair gave the slightest nod in agreement, so weak that anyone besides a Sentinel would have missed it. Slowly, he allowed himself to be led out to the living room and remained impassive as Jim pressed him easily to sit down on the couch. "Simon, could you get the first aid kit?" Jim requested, knowing that the captain would be grateful for a minor escape. The captain quickly headed in the direction of the bathroom, eager for the short reprieve. Shutters came down behind Jim Ellison eyes as he pulled a once familiar maneuver and clamped down on his emotions, tighter than a drum. He knew that he couldn't deal with his own feelings, not while taking care of Blair's apparently fragile psyche at the same time. His partner and best friend was self-destructing right in front before his eyes and he felt helpless, not having the slightest idea what to do.
Simon stepped into the bathroom and let out the breath that he had been holding ever since he had heard his best detective exclaim that he had smelled blood coming from the bathroom that Sandburg was in. Despite Banks' claims, the normally bouncy young man had become more than just an annoyance, he had become a trusted friend. Jim Ellison had not been the only one that had spent many sleepless vigils over the bed of one trouble magnet of a police observer. Somehow or another, Blair Sandburg had made his place in the lives and hearts of every detective in Major Crimes. Not an easy task by any stretch of the imagination, in fact, it was down right impossible. But Blair Sandburg defied logic and all stereotypes. His empathic and trusting nature made him easy to get along with and easy to care for, unfortunately, too often it made him just as easy a target. So many times, that blind and loving trust had been betrayed and placed the civilian in places of great danger, and usually exposed his slender body to physical injury, yet his soul seemed to remain untouched. Until now at least.
Simon couldn't help but wonder now if the warning signs had been all along. It was obvious now that his young friend was hurting, right down to very core of his soul. Was this last blow that fate dealt him the one that would prove to be irrevocable? The one that would take away that shimmer of innocence and light that shone from those deep blue eyes once and for all? The large man could not stop a shudder that snaked down his spine at the very idea. To have that livelihood taken from Blair, it would make him nothing but a shell of the person he had been, it would destroy everything that defined him.
And if the Guide was destroyed, even in spirit, what would become of the Sentinel? Simon had never claimed to know anything about, or even cared to venture into, the mystical world that seemed to contain his two friends. He rarely questioned them, and chalked up their reasoning to "a Sentinel thing." Whether it was a Sentinel thing or a Jim and Blair thing, Simon remembered all too clearly the devestation and heartbreak of Ellison as he had vainly performed CPR on Sandburg's once lifeless body, the tears streaming down the stoic detective's face as he had shouted over and over "This isn't happening!" Banks himself had wiped furiously at his own eyes when the paramedics had told them it was too late. Banks had known then, with no uncertainty, that if one member of his best team were to die, the other would quickly follow.
Returning to the task at hand, he retrieved the first aid kit. Before stepping back out the door, he took a deep breath and said silently to himself, "I am… relaxed."
Jim had retrieved a damp dish cloth from the kitchen and was busy tenderly wiping the blood off of Blair's arms when Simon returned with the first aid kit. The young man was trembling a little less than he had before but still refused to look either of the two other men in the eye. Jim began dabbing a bit at the cuts with some peroxide to clean them off. Blair winced, and Simon watch as his best detective's jaw tightened with each little gasp and flinch. Besides the occasional twitch, Blair remained unresponsive, watching Jim's ministrations, seemingly impassive to the whole scene. Sentinel eyes examined the cuts closely, assuring himself that none required stitches. They were all the same as the long gash he had discovered the day before. Satisfied, he reached for some bandages to put on them. As the Sentinel positioned them over the cuts, his eyes caught something that had never been noticed before, or if it had been, it had been dismissed as nothing. Zooming in on sight, the image came into focus: Dozens and dozens of small scars, years faded, so much that normal eyes would never be able to see them. Shocked at this new discovery, Jim's hold on the slender wrist tightened unconsciously, elicting a tiny yelp from Blair. What has my Guide been keeping from me? Jim questioned as the puzzle that was Blair's past seemed to grow more and more unsolvable.
Sky blue eyes glared at the trembling young man, who remained oblivious to the concern directed towards him. Once more, Jim found himself swallowing his anger. He was angry at the events that had taken place, angry at himself for not noticing that his Guide's very soul was sick, and angry for never noticing the now apparent scars before; but he was not angry at Blair, and he had to make certain the kid knew that or there would be no hope of finding out what was going on in that over-active brain beneath the mop of brown curls.
With a sigh, Jim patted Blair on the shoulder and then, turning to his captain, he motioned towards the kitchen. Out of earshot of the unresponsive police observer, Jim talked quietly to his superior officer. "Simon, I think we can handle it from here…"
"Don't even try it Ellison!" Banks said in an authorative, albeit hushed tone. "You are not the only one who cares about the kid, you know that?"
Jim nodded solemnly, but with a touch of a smile playing at his lips at the captain actually admitting the fact that he cared about Blair almost as much as he did. Although touched by his captain's concern, he knew that it would be an almost impossible task to get Blair to open up to him, much less to open up in front of the gruff captain as well. As Jim told Simon as much, he felt relieved when the larger man nodded his head in agreement.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right Jim," Simon admitted as he brought one hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "Just don't try and shut me out, okay? This whole thing has been hard on both of you." Jim resisted the urge to grin broadly at the fact that his cantankerous captain was beginning to sound a lot like a certain ex-anthropologist.
As he closed the door behind Simon, the Sentinel looked his young shaman over once more. The curly head had remained bowed, and although the trembling had lessened, it was still far too obvious to Sentinel eyes, the oppresing silence that was so uncharacteristic of Blair was the most disturbing part of the whole scene. With no idea where to begin, Jim crossed the room and found himself thoughtfully staring out at the Cascade skyline.
"What do you fear?" his reflection seemed to ask. "What do you fear?" The spirit guide's warning echoed through the Sentinel's mind as he stared out the balcony doors. His mind flashed back to that ancient grotto, images of death and pain shown to him by the jaguar, making him face what he had wanted nothing more than to forget, His Guide, partner, best friend and brother in all but blood, lay dying… dead. He could all too vividly recall the feeling of the cold lifeless skin against his fingertips, and the wretched silence born in the absence of his Guide's heartbeat. He tuned his hearing towards the young man sitting silently on the couch. He monitered heart rate and respiration, finding a sense of peace there. He had found himself doing that often in the past year, ever since what had happened at that fountain. Many nights he had awakened from his own breed of night terrors and immediately he would search out that perfect rhythm that had become every bit as familiar as his own. To think that for a few horrible, unforgetable moments those sounds had been gone, thought never to be heard again caused an icy grip to wind tightly around the stoic detective's heart. He closed his eyes briefly and could see Simon's desperate brown eyes, "I don't hear a heartbeat. Do you? Do you hear a heartbeat?" He could only stand and stare disbelieving, "This can't be happening…" mind and soul screamed in denial. But no, he hadn't be able to hear that precious heartbeat.
Bringing himself back to the present, Jim shook himself out of such morbid thoughts. With help and guidance from the panther, he had been able to call that heartbeat back to him that day. Blair was sitting on the couch not ten feet away, breathing, heart beating, warm and dry. Closing his eyes, he took a deep cleansing breath and immediately regretted it. The smell of blood was still thick to his sensitive nose. He had all been able to practically taste it ever since he had burst in through the bathroom door. He had been able to call Blair's soul back to him once before. Would he be able to do it again? Uncertainty and self-doubt plagued him because he knew that wounds inflicted to the soul took much longer to heal than physical ones, and that was if they ever healed at all.
It was then that a quiet yet sorrowful voice broke the staggering silence that had filled the loft, "What do you want me to say Jim?"