"...He suffered much from a morbid acuteness of the senses; the most insipid food was alone endurable; he could wear only garments of certain texture; the odours of all flowers were oppressive; his eyes were tortured by even a faint light; and there were but peculiar sounds..."

--Edgar Allen Poe THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER, 1839.

There it was again.

Tick tick tick.

A steady sound; as regular as the drip in a leaky faucet. Only it wasn't water; he'd have recognized that sound. Besides, he'd already checked every sink in the loft. There was something metallic about it, almost like a clock, but not quite.

Tick tick tick.

OK. There was no need for this to be driving him nuts. He'd dealt with things like this before. Sandburg had taught him how to tune it all out if he wanted to. Eyes shut. Deep breaths. Turn the volume down. Ahhh, better.

Tick tick tick.

"Argh!" Jim threw back the sheets and climbed out of bed. Standing at the top of the stairs, he looked down into the living room of the loft. No lights on; Sandburg must have turned in. Easy enough to tell he was sleeping soundly. His gaze took in the double doors of the balcony, but the potted plants had been moved far enough away from the window that even a strong breeze would not cause leaves to brush the panes of glass. Wrong sound, anyway.

Damn, he'd lost it. Why was it that he only heard the sound when he was in bed, trying to sleep? He stood stock still, listening to the building. The rattle of the pipes, the creak of wood, someone flushing a toilet in the next condo, someone snoring heavily on the second floor, the newlyweds in the next building, the sporadic traffic on the street below. All of these things he filtered out with ease. Sandburg had taught him how, and he'd done it so many times that it was habit. So why this particular noise? What about it slipped through his defenses so easily?

Jim walked back to the bed and laid down, regulating his breathing and trying to turn the dial down on everything, including the ominous rumblings in his stomach. Sandburg had decided to test his theory that Jim could learn to eat spicy foods again if he just learned to regulate his sense of taste like he did all of his other senses. Admittedly, the Indian food they'd eaten was good, but the dial wouldn't work on a healthy case of indigestion.

Finally, after intense concentration, the maddening sound was gone. He was dead tired and sleep began to overtake him quickly.

Tick tick tick.

Opening his eyes, Jim stared at the pattern of shadows on the ceiling. This had been going on for four hours now, and he couldn't stand it anymore.

Throwing aside the covers, he stalked downstairs and knocked on Blair's door.

"Sandburg."

Stirring and a muffled "Hrumph" were his only answer.

Jim gave up trying to knock and opened the door, shaking his friend on the shoulder. "Wake up, Sandburg."

Blair was buried under a pile of blankets which were pulled loose from the bottom of the bed. He lay on his back, one hand on a book that was lying open face down on his stomach. Jim shook his head. Edgar Allen Poe was not his idea of relaxing bedtime reading.

"Sandburg."

"Wha?" He mumbled and opened an eye. Seeing a dark figure looming over him in the dim light of the room, Blair yelped. The book went tumbling off the bed.

"It's me, it's Jim." Turning, the sentinel quickly flicked on the lamp.

Blair caught his breath and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Jeez, man, way to scare me to death. What's going on?" Blair reached over to his bedside table, grabbing his glasses and squinting at the readout on his clock. "3 a.m.? You hear a prowler or something?"

"Or something. I need you to help me find a sound."

Blair looked up at him with sleep-blurred eyes, running his hands through wild hair. His dark green T-shirt was literally "slept in". Jim wondered if this was how he achieved his casual look.

Speaking through a yawn, Blair mumbled, "OK".

"It's a kind of ticking-pinging sound, but I can't locate it."

"If it's keeping you up, why don't you filter it out?"

"What do you think I've been doing for the last four hours, Sandburg?"

Blair held his hands up in surrender. "OK, OK. Chill out, man." Standing, he stretched and yawned again. "So what does it sound like? You said pinging. Is it water?"

"No, metallic."

"Can you hear it now?"

Jim closed his eyes and turned up his hearing. "It's gone again. Damn it, every time I try to close my eyes..."

"OK, maybe it's a little like a star..."

"What in the hell are you talking about?" Jim's voice was a little too loud.

"Hey, I'm not awake here, man. Give me a break. You know how some stars you can only see if you aren't looking directly at them? Because your peripheral vision picks up on more light than your direct vision does."

"You're saying I won't hear it unless I'm not trying to?"

Blair shrugged. "You got me. I don't think there is such a thing as peripheral hearing."

"So why did you bring it up?"

"Just brainstorming."

"Take the storm indoors, Chief."

Blair heaved a martyred sigh. "Where were you when you heard it the first time?"

"Lying in bed."

"So let?s go up there and see if you can locate it from there. Maybe it's something so faint it doesn't register down here at all."

Jim turned and headed up the stairs, feeling fairly certain that Sandburg didn't know what he was doing.

"So, um, if this noise keeps up and we can't find it, I think the best thing to do would be for you to sleep on the couch, since you can't hear it downstairs.

"How about, you take the couch and I take your bed?"

"Geez, a little cranky tonight, aren't we?"

"Something for you to keep in mind." Jim glared at Blair as they reached the top of the steps. He was in no mood for humor. As it was, there was no way he'd get his eight hours before work, and the beginnings of a major headache had just taken up residence behind his left eye.

Blair smiled at him and held up his hands. "I hear you loud and clear, man." The young man gestured to the bed. "OK, cop a squat and see if you can hear it."

"Cop a squat?"

"Hey, do you want my help or don't you? 'Cause if all you're gonna do is hurl abuse, I'm outta here."

There wasn't a hint of anger in Blair's tone. He was just stating the facts. Jim felt a little guilty. He had just dragged his friend out of a sound sleep and Blair hadn't complained about it.

Jim lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, filtering out everything. He was so tired that he felt himself starting to feel warm and drowsy. Just as he was drifting off into a sweet, much-needed slumber, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, man, are you zoning out?"

"No, I was sleeping!" Jim growled.

"Sorry."

"So am I." Jim grabbed his pillow and pounded it a few times before lying back down. This wasn't going to get him anywhere. He waved his hand toward the stairs in irritation. "Forget it. Go back to bed."

"Yeah, sure, fine. Whatever you say, man." Blair's good humor evaporated in an instant. He was not quiet as he went back down the stairs and slammed the door to his room.

Jim fell asleep to the sound of his friend mumbling to himself.

"Scares me half to death, wakes me up out of an awesome dream, and do I complain? No." Shivering, Blair turned off the light and climbed back under the still-warm covers.

"Being yelled at by pissed off sentinels was not in the job description, man. I should charge him by the hour."

As he pulled the blankets up around his shoulders, he realized he was still tired. Getting ticked off could wait until morning.

"You're welcome, Jim." Blair mumbled as he drifted off to sleep, wondering what Jim would have done if he'd never met him.