All Good Things . . .
By: Victoria May
"No ma'am . . .. Yes, I am taking this seriously . . .. No ma'am, you can not go into his home and take his fish as retribution . . .. Yes ma'am, I realize he took your cat and won't give it back, but that's not a major crime." I roll my eyes at Rafe who is smothering laughter behind his hand and return to the irate woman on the line, Mrs. Randolph, who's son-in-law apparently took her cat while she was away on vacation and now won't give it back.
"Mrs. Randolph . . .. Mrs. Randolph! I'm going to transfer you now to the desk sergeant. He'll be able to help you. Mrs. . . . Mrs. Randolph-transferring you now, yes, goodbye." I quickly put the line on hold and transfer the call downstairs. I set the handset down and rub my eyes. What a woman. There are times when I'm glad to be single.
I grab my empty coffee mug and I'm just about to push out of my chair when Simon's door flies open and he booms, "Brown! Rafe! My office-now!"
His voice is sharp, and he's glaring at Major Crime's own clowns like they beheaded the pope and for once, I'm glad it's not my name being hollered across the bullpen. Of course the number of instances of that occurring has fallen dramatically in the last year or so. Since, well, no-that's not a place I want to go. Today he's not even looking my way and I can live with that.
I share a look with Brown as he passes me and I grin cockily. I feel for ya buddy. As if he can sense my thoughts, he narrows his eyes and looks at me sideways and I have to laugh. He looks so miserable about being called into the lion's den when Simon is so obviously in a bad, bad mood. Rafe nudges his partner's shoulder to get him moving again and the pair continues on, into the captain's office.
Chucking softly to myself, I complete my sojourn into the break-room and pour myself a cup of hot sludge. I've found that if I dial down far enough, even the last of the batch can taste better than gourmet. But today the coffee is palatable without any extraneous help and I fill my mug to the brim and carry it back to my desk.
I glance towards Simon's office and I can see him leaning against his desk, his arms folded across his chest. His head is down but his lips are moving. I wonder what he's saying as Brown and Rafe are listening with shocked looks and angry eyes. I'm tempted to listen in, but Simon trusts me not to, both as my captain and as my friend. If he even suspects that I'm abusing his goodwill I know that I'll be out on my ass as fast as I can blink. Simon's like that. He'll give you undying trust, but break that trust and watch out. You do not want to be on that man's bad side. And besides, his friendship means too much to me to throw it so carelessly away. If he has something to say to me, he'll say it.
Tamping down my curiosity, I turn back to my desk and pick up an unfinished report. Might as well get some work done. Brown'll fill me in a.s.a.p. anyway.
I'm almost through with the report when the door to Simon's office opens and I can't help myself, I glance up. Brown and Rafe hurry by, neither looking my way. I watch as they grab their coats and rush out without so much as a word to anyone. Weird.
I almost turn back to my work when I get this creepy crawly feeling along the back of my neck. I glance over at the captain's office and Simon's standing there, staring at me. I've seen that look before, usually when . . .. The realization hits me square on-someone's dead.
I'm out of my chair before I even realize I've moved and I'm in Simon's face demanding to know who it is.
His eyes soften and he cocks his head at his office. I follow him mutely and wait while he closes the door and draws the blinds.
"Jim," he starts.
I raise my hand. "Who?" I demand, interrupting him.
"Jim, sit down," he says, putting his hand on my shoulder.
I jerk away and slam into the table behind me. "Just tell me who Simon," I growl. My hands are curled into fists. I'm not going to hit him, but Simon takes a step back anyway.
"Jim, listen to me. No one's dead," he says firmly and I can feel the air escape my lungs in a giant hiss. "Now please, sit down."
This time I follow his directive and lower myself into a chair. Simon sits near, but not too near, and leans toward me.
"There was an explosion at Redwood. Blair was hurt, so was Angeline. They're at St. Joseph's. Angeline caught the blast full on. She's bad . . . bad Jim. Third degree . . . half her face and neck, and . . . her chest. She must . . . turned or we wouldn't . . . ID yet . . ."
His words are fading in and out and I can feel numbness creeping along my arms and into my hands. I can't move and it's taking everything I have to even draw in a breath. I can see his large, brown hand settle on my knee, but I can't feel it. He's leaning close now and I blink rapidly as I focus on his lips. They're moving but I can't hear anything. All I can feel is my heart slamming against my ribcage and I think I'm actually having a heart attack.
Suddenly my vision is filled with a close up of frightened brown eyes and I can feel the warmth of Simon's hands where they're grasping my head.
" . . . are you . . . to me?"
My hearing kicks in and I can hear the fear in my friend's voice.
"You need to calm down Jim. Please, I don't know what I'm doing here-what's going on?"
I raise my hand and clamp down on his arm, and squeeze to let him know I'm okay. His head falls and he shakes his head, his hands still cupping my face.
"Thank you god," he murmurs before finally letting his hands slip away. "Are you okay?" he demands quietly.
I nod and finally muster words; "I'm okay."
"What the hell was that?"
I shake my head and shrug.
"Was that a-a sentinel thing?" he asks. He's afraid and I don't blame him. It's been a long time since my senses have caused me havoc. But it's not my senses and I tell him so.
"It's a Jim thing." I'm almost afraid to admit it. So much of my so-called 'fear-based responses', those which caused such a riff between Blair and I at one time, have always and only been a Jim thing.
Simon sits back and shakes his head. "Well, you need to pull it together Jim. We need to get out of here." He makes to stand but I reach out and grab his arm.
"Wait! What about Blair . . .?" I hadn't heard, or maybe I did and my brain refused to process it. But whatever the reason, I still didn't know what happened to my friend.
He eases back into the chair and looks at me. "He's going to need you Jim. He's going to need all of us this time. We can't . . .." his voice chokes and he pauses, looking away quickly. Finally, he clears his throat and goes on. "We can't let him down again."
This time it's me lending a supportive hand. "I know. I won't," I promise, because I know that it was me, not them, who really let Blair down. Who is still letting him down, hanging back after he threw himself back into our friendship, into my life.
"The blast threw him across the room. They don't know if he hit the wall or the floor, but either way, the damage was done." He's still not looking at me.
"How bad?" I force out.
"Bad. His skull is fractured and they're worried about injury to his spinal cord. That's all I know."
I draw in a deep breath and stare at the closed door. "What happened?" I need something to remove the picture of a lifeless, dead Blair from my mind. Something that can replace the image of that damn fountain and Blair's floating body.
"They think it was a bomb. Had to have been. Nothing else would have been so contained." Simon heaves a sigh and pushed out of his chair. "Let's go."
He's grabbing his coat and is out the door before I'm even on my feet. I scramble after him, grateful that I'm not the only one thrown for a loop here. I ignore the curious looks we're getting from the other detectives and riffraff milling around the bullpen and grab my coat, meeting up with Simon at the elevator. We're both silent on the way to the hospital.
The ER's busy-it usually is, no matter what time of the day or night. But today it seems unusually so. We have to literally push our way to the admit desk. Simon reaches the counter first and is leaning across, holding out his badge.
"I need to know the status of the two victims of the Redwood bombing!" he nearly shouts at the clerk.
The clerk is a wet behind the ears college kid and he squints behind his glasses as he looks at first Simon and then me looming behind my boss.
"Can I see that badge again? I can't just give out info to anyone who asks," he spouts.
Simon narrows his eyes and the kid steps back. Before he can take another both Simon and my badges are in his face and we're glaring outright now. His hand quivers, just slightly, as he reaches for my badge. Figures he'd ignore Simon and go for the white guy. I snatch mine back and jerk my head towards Simon.
"He's the boss kid," I snarl.
His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and he takes Simon's badge and quickly glances at it before handing it back. "Just a minute," he says before disappearing into the throng.
I let my attention wander around the busy space, not really noticing anything in particular. Simon's voice draws my attention back to the here and now.
"Damn kid," he snaps and I look in the direction he's staring. The clerk is over at the other end of the reception area, dickering with a mother clutching a small child. What the hell?
I turn to charge around the desk and nearly collide with a doctor approaching from the other direction.
"Detectives?" she asks as she draws near.
Simon steps forward with his hand out. "Captain Banks, Major Crimes division." He nods in my direction. "This is Detective Ellison. What can you tell us?"
The doctor, a tall, gangly woman with frizzy hair pulled back in a ponytail, nods at me and addresses Simon. "Captain, I'm Dr. Sweeney, Chief of Emergency Services. First off, both victims have been moved to surgery.
"Ms. Mercado has third degree burns on roughly forty percent of her face and head, neck and upper chest area, as well as her arm."
My stomach roils angrily and I clench my teeth, barely noticing the heavy hand settle on my shoulder. I struggle to push down my fear and anger, and focus on the doctor.
"She has second degree burns extending down her chest. Her face and her left hand received most of the damage. Her hand must have been almost on top of the bomb. They may not be able to save what's left of her hand-the damage was extreme. The bones in that arm were essentially shattered by the blast, the elbow and shoulder dislocated. The skin received third degree burns. The damage to her face was extensive. She will need numerous surgeries to rebuild her ear, nose, mouth and chin. Thanks to the advance in burn care, her chances of survival are improved, but infection is always a risk and she will need intensive care for quite some time in the burn unit."
She paused, allowing us time to digest her report and at Simon's slight nod, she continued, giving the report I both dreaded and needed to hear.
"Mr. Sandburg came in with a blunt force head trauma and possible spinal cord injury, which an MRI has already ruled out. However, there is swelling around the cord and four cracked vertebrae. Mr. Sandburg will be looking forward to a lengthy recovery in traction for that alone."
I grit my teeth and force myself to continue listening-I know I should feel relieved, but its damn hard.
"As for the head trauma, his skull was fractured and fluid was collecting around his brain. He is in surgery at the moment to install a shunt to drain the fluid, which will hopefully allow his brain to heal more easily. There is swelling in his brain-once the shunt is in place he will be treated with drugs to reduce the swelling. As far as damage, we won't know until later. He did receive minor, first degree burns over his face and arms, but those will heal with no lasting scars."
She stops again and waits. "You can obtain copies of all pertinent records down one level in B14, the Records Office."
Simon nods and asks, "And where can we wait for an update?"
It's obvious she doesn't realize that we're more than just investigating officers, as she's tapping her foot and casting looks towards the clock on the wall next to us. "Ms. Mercado will be moved to the Burn Unit on the fifth floor and Mr. Sandburg will be taken to the Critical Care Unit on two."
Finally giving in to her need to be elsewhere, she prompts, "If you don't need anything else?"
"Oh, no. Thank you for your time," Simon says and I watch as she hurries away to join in the care of a bloody kid being pushed in on a stretcher.
With his back to me, Simon growls out a low, "Let's go," and begins to walk towards the elevators as I trail along behind. How did this happen? He was supposed to be safe, doing his own thing. Living his own life. Something like this wasn't supposed to happen-not now. Not ever.
An arm on my hand stops my forward movement and I glance over at Simon. He's holding something in his hands and I frown.
"What's that?"
"This?" he says, holding up what looks like a file. "Oh, this is just the initial report from the ER. Which I just got from medical records. While you were busy staring at the wall. You want to spend a little more time in la la land or are you ready to go upstairs?"
I turn away and jab the elevator button. It's already glowing white, but I jab it again. We're silent until we get to the fifth floor. I'm not ready to see Blair, and I need to know-to see how bad Angeline really is. The damage the doctor was talking about, I'd seen similar damage, some better, some worse in combat. But it wasn't something I'd ever expected to have to see in this life.
It feels like we've been waiting hours-we probably have-when a doctor in surgeon's scrubs approaches us.
"Captain Banks?" he asks as he slumps down in a chair next to Simon. At Simon's nod, he pulls a brightly colored cap off his head revealing shiny, wet skin. "I'm Doctor Kilpatrick, Chief of Surgery. I headed up the team working on Ms. Mercado," he says, extending his hand.
Simon grasps it like a lifeline and then remembers me. "I'm sorry," he says, tearing his eyes from the doctor's face and pats my back. "This is Detective Ellison-while he's not officially working on the bombing, he is a good friend of Ms. Mercado's."
The doctor looks surprised as he takes my hand. "Detective," he says, before launching into his horrifying tale.
"The surgery went as well as can be expected. We had a team working on her arm and then on her face. There wasn't much we could do for her face at this time-we'll need to wait for the burns to heal before we attempt any real reconstruction. But for now, she's able to breathe. Amazingly, her jaw wasn't shattered as was first suspected, but was grossly displaced. We've inserted wires to allow her jaw to heal. Her nose is another story. Basically, it was destroyed and will need to be rebuilt. For now, breathing tubes have been inserted to keep the nasal passages open and provide oxygen." He paused and his hand reached up, fingers tugging distractedly at his earlobe.
"Most of her ear was destroyed as well and will need further work. Once the burns are adequately healed, we'll schedule the surgeries together to minimize the trauma for Ms. Mercado. The eardrum was shattered and in all likelihood, there will be permanent hearing loss in that ear. We will be bringing in a specialist to attend to that aspect of Ms. Mercado's care however, so his prognosis may differ."
It's a lot of information to take in at once and I rub my eyes warily. "Her arm?" I prompt. I'm tired and I really want to go see Blair.
Kilpatrick sighs and stretches his neck. "We were able to salvage her wrist, lower hand and thumb. It was more than we'd hoped for to be honest. After the hand heals from this surgery, and we see what shape it takes, she can be fit for a prosthesis. The ulna and radius bones were broken in several places-we had to stabilize the breaks with pins and screws. Both the elbow and shoulder were dislocated but should heal with no lingering problems. We did have to repair extensive nerve and tendon damage but that also should heal well." Sighing he stood.
"I know it doesn't sound good gentlemen, but right now it's really wait and see. The extensive burns Ms. Mercado received from the explosion are the gravest concern. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got another surgery in two hours and I'd like to catch some shuteye."
I lean back and shut my eyes, letting Simon see the doctor off. This is so unbelievable and it pisses me off. I am just so fucking angry I could hit something. I can feel my hand curling into a fist just as a large but gentle weight settles over it. Simon. I open my eyes and look into his-willing him to see how hard this is for me.
"I know Jim-it's killing me too," he says softly. Damn, but he is getting good at reading me. I almost smile at the thought. He grips my hand harder and then stands.
"Let's go see the kid."
It didn't take us long to find out that Blair was out of recovery and settled in his own room. I was prepared for bad, but this is so much worse. Blair, my Blair-my friend, is an array of burnt skin, singed hair, mottled bruises, all rolled up in a trapeze like contraption that is holding him immobile and looking as pathetic as I've ever seen. There's a large white bandage near the back of his head and it draws my attention. I almost miss the fact that Blair's eyes are open and are watching us watch him.
"Hey," I say gently, moving forward. I drag the vinyl chair closer and drop into it, taking his hand in mine. His eyes follow my movements and I realize too late that the brace around his neck is keeping him from seeing me clearly. I stand and lean over him so he can see me better.
"How're you doing?" I whisper. He doesn't respond, but his eyes slide away from me and settle on Simon.
Simon never ceases to amaze me. I've known him a long time, but I tend to forget he has such a soft side. I guess being captain means being the bad guy and seeing the big, bad captain soothe and coddle with the best, well, it's just eerie.
"Hey Blair, how're you doing kid?" he croons as he slips his large hand into Blair's lax one and rubs his thumb over Blair's pale skin. "You gave us quite the scare. You really need to stop doing that-I'm too old for these kinds of phone calls."
My vision expands until just two hands fill it: one pale-almost translucent and still, the other a rich cacophony of browns that radiates warmth and comfort. I startle when Blair's fingers tense then wrap slightly around Simon's. My own fingers suddenly feel as though they're caught in a vise and I shake them lose. I catch my mistake but not in time. Blair's eyes slide towards me then away, quickly filling with tears.
"Hey kiddo, don't do that. You just startled me. I dialed up, way up. Guess I forgot some of those lessons you taught me," I explain, my own hand going up to brush hair away from his eyes.
I smile at his whispered, "Dial it down."
"I'll do that," I say, relieved to hear his voice. Until this moment, I wasn't sure there wasn't some sort of brain damage going on.
"Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up. I promise." He's trying so hard to stay awake, but there's no need. I'd slipped my hand back around his, and a tiny squeeze draws my attention again.
"Angi?" he asks, his eyes darting between Simon and I.
Simon leans over and looks Blair right in the eye. "She's alive Blair. She had to have surgery, like you, and she came through with flying colors."
He's leaving out the grimmer details, like hearing loss, reconstructive surgery, and prosthetics but Blair doesn't need to know any of that this soon. He has his own battle to fight.
I catch Simon's attention and nod towards the door. I turn back to Blair.
"Hey Chief, we're going to grab a quick bite to eat. You need to sleep and get some strength back. We'll see you soon."
He nods and his eyes drift shut and within seconds he's sleeping peacefully. Simon and I slip out into the hall.
"Where the hell's his doctor?" I growl. I want some assurances and I want them now. My friend is lying there after having surgery on his brain and spine and I want to know-no, I need to know how worried I should be.
It takes some time, but his doctor eventually arrives and gives us a run down of what to expect. The traction is to stabilize his back while his fused spine heals. Four vertebrae fractured in the blast that threw him across a room and into a shut door. He'll be in that contraption for several weeks before graduating to a body cast. Then months of rehabilitation and he'll still have limited motion and lifting ability as a result of the rod attached to the section of vertebrae that took the hit the hardest. But his spinal cord escaped damage, and if a month, or six months in traction means that it stays that way, then so be it.
His brain scans look good-the shunt they installed in his brain has released the pressure that was building up around the spot where his head met the wall. Various medications will ensure that the swelling goes down and stays down. He'll have to sit through lots more tests and scans before the doctor will be completely satisfied, but that's okay. Because Blair is going to be okay-he has to be.
I'd really thought that I was over this. I thought that I didn't need him anymore. I've tried so hard to convince myself that I was okay, better than okay, because I was finally standing on my own two feet. God, I was so wrong. What must he have felt in these months since I spilled his drink in that dark pub? He took me at my word that I was happy to see him-that I was happy that his life had come to what I considered a pretty successful juncture. But now I can finally see, will finally admit, that all this time I'd been wishing I'd been somewhere else that night.
I know he knows. He's not stupid and if anyone has ever known me, it's him. He's always known when I was hiding something, or when I was afraid. Did he think that I would push him away again if he said anything? What made him keep his silence? Did I mean so much to him, even after all the times I did push him away, punished him when my life went awry, that he would endure my silent abuse with nary a murmur?
He's changed these last few years, I'd thought for the better. But I can see now that so much of that renewed confidence is a sham. I wanted to believe that it was all coming together for him. I didn't want to worry about him. I'd convinced myself that Blair was a survivor-that he'd land on his feet no matter what. But I was wrong. And I wasn't alone in donning the blinders. No one spoke of Blair after I'd dismissed him from my life. It was as if he'd died-no, it was like he'd been erased. And after all this time, after being abandoned to deal with the fallout on his own, he still tries so hard to keep us near him.
I've often wondered how his life would have turned out if he had never met me. Would he have finished his doctorate? Would he have still written a Nobel-Prize-worthy piece of art? Would he be married by now, with tiny little Sandburgs running amuck? Or would he be off making contact with faraway cultures, writing book after book full of world changing observations?
But he did meet me and we can't change that. I'm starting to wonder if someone or something out there keeps bringing us together. I've finally come to accept my senses, and even accept the whole mystical aspect of being a Sentinel. I've never wanted to rely on anyone, not for anything. I've never really known how. But when Blair walked into my life, I found myself so out of control it scared me. And it wasn't just because I was out of control, but because someone else-Blair, had somehow taken that control into his own hands.
Would he have understood that? I'd never bothered to explain. I'd assumed he always knew, but now I think he never did. How could he? I never let on. I let him believe that his role in my life was limited to whispered directions to dial down my hearing or dial up my eyesight. I let him teach me about piggybacking one sense onto another. I even let him strap me into weird contraptions that flashed strobe lights into my eyes. But I never let him know how much of my life he had really changed.
You'd think for a smart guy he would have figured it out. I mean, we went almost everywhere together. I let him live with me. He came on far more stakeouts and participated in more sting operations than most seasoned flatfoots. And when I realized how much I'd come to rely on him, not just for my senses, but as my friend, I began to push him away. And still he didn't figure it out.
My one true sin in all of this, is letting it go on for so long that we ended up in this situation. I should have cut him loose years ago. But I couldn't.
I see him lying in that hospital room and I am so ashamed. For a smart guy, you'd think I would have figured it out long before now.
I need him. I always have.
By: Victoria May
"No ma'am . . .. Yes, I am taking this seriously . . .. No ma'am, you can not go into his home and take his fish as retribution . . .. Yes ma'am, I realize he took your cat and won't give it back, but that's not a major crime." I roll my eyes at Rafe who is smothering laughter behind his hand and return to the irate woman on the line, Mrs. Randolph, who's son-in-law apparently took her cat while she was away on vacation and now won't give it back.
"Mrs. Randolph . . .. Mrs. Randolph! I'm going to transfer you now to the desk sergeant. He'll be able to help you. Mrs. . . . Mrs. Randolph-transferring you now, yes, goodbye." I quickly put the line on hold and transfer the call downstairs. I set the handset down and rub my eyes. What a woman. There are times when I'm glad to be single.
I grab my empty coffee mug and I'm just about to push out of my chair when Simon's door flies open and he booms, "Brown! Rafe! My office-now!"
His voice is sharp, and he's glaring at Major Crime's own clowns like they beheaded the pope and for once, I'm glad it's not my name being hollered across the bullpen. Of course the number of instances of that occurring has fallen dramatically in the last year or so. Since, well, no-that's not a place I want to go. Today he's not even looking my way and I can live with that.
I share a look with Brown as he passes me and I grin cockily. I feel for ya buddy. As if he can sense my thoughts, he narrows his eyes and looks at me sideways and I have to laugh. He looks so miserable about being called into the lion's den when Simon is so obviously in a bad, bad mood. Rafe nudges his partner's shoulder to get him moving again and the pair continues on, into the captain's office.
Chucking softly to myself, I complete my sojourn into the break-room and pour myself a cup of hot sludge. I've found that if I dial down far enough, even the last of the batch can taste better than gourmet. But today the coffee is palatable without any extraneous help and I fill my mug to the brim and carry it back to my desk.
I glance towards Simon's office and I can see him leaning against his desk, his arms folded across his chest. His head is down but his lips are moving. I wonder what he's saying as Brown and Rafe are listening with shocked looks and angry eyes. I'm tempted to listen in, but Simon trusts me not to, both as my captain and as my friend. If he even suspects that I'm abusing his goodwill I know that I'll be out on my ass as fast as I can blink. Simon's like that. He'll give you undying trust, but break that trust and watch out. You do not want to be on that man's bad side. And besides, his friendship means too much to me to throw it so carelessly away. If he has something to say to me, he'll say it.
Tamping down my curiosity, I turn back to my desk and pick up an unfinished report. Might as well get some work done. Brown'll fill me in a.s.a.p. anyway.
I'm almost through with the report when the door to Simon's office opens and I can't help myself, I glance up. Brown and Rafe hurry by, neither looking my way. I watch as they grab their coats and rush out without so much as a word to anyone. Weird.
I almost turn back to my work when I get this creepy crawly feeling along the back of my neck. I glance over at the captain's office and Simon's standing there, staring at me. I've seen that look before, usually when . . .. The realization hits me square on-someone's dead.
I'm out of my chair before I even realize I've moved and I'm in Simon's face demanding to know who it is.
His eyes soften and he cocks his head at his office. I follow him mutely and wait while he closes the door and draws the blinds.
"Jim," he starts.
I raise my hand. "Who?" I demand, interrupting him.
"Jim, sit down," he says, putting his hand on my shoulder.
I jerk away and slam into the table behind me. "Just tell me who Simon," I growl. My hands are curled into fists. I'm not going to hit him, but Simon takes a step back anyway.
"Jim, listen to me. No one's dead," he says firmly and I can feel the air escape my lungs in a giant hiss. "Now please, sit down."
This time I follow his directive and lower myself into a chair. Simon sits near, but not too near, and leans toward me.
"There was an explosion at Redwood. Blair was hurt, so was Angeline. They're at St. Joseph's. Angeline caught the blast full on. She's bad . . . bad Jim. Third degree . . . half her face and neck, and . . . her chest. She must . . . turned or we wouldn't . . . ID yet . . ."
His words are fading in and out and I can feel numbness creeping along my arms and into my hands. I can't move and it's taking everything I have to even draw in a breath. I can see his large, brown hand settle on my knee, but I can't feel it. He's leaning close now and I blink rapidly as I focus on his lips. They're moving but I can't hear anything. All I can feel is my heart slamming against my ribcage and I think I'm actually having a heart attack.
Suddenly my vision is filled with a close up of frightened brown eyes and I can feel the warmth of Simon's hands where they're grasping my head.
" . . . are you . . . to me?"
My hearing kicks in and I can hear the fear in my friend's voice.
"You need to calm down Jim. Please, I don't know what I'm doing here-what's going on?"
I raise my hand and clamp down on his arm, and squeeze to let him know I'm okay. His head falls and he shakes his head, his hands still cupping my face.
"Thank you god," he murmurs before finally letting his hands slip away. "Are you okay?" he demands quietly.
I nod and finally muster words; "I'm okay."
"What the hell was that?"
I shake my head and shrug.
"Was that a-a sentinel thing?" he asks. He's afraid and I don't blame him. It's been a long time since my senses have caused me havoc. But it's not my senses and I tell him so.
"It's a Jim thing." I'm almost afraid to admit it. So much of my so-called 'fear-based responses', those which caused such a riff between Blair and I at one time, have always and only been a Jim thing.
Simon sits back and shakes his head. "Well, you need to pull it together Jim. We need to get out of here." He makes to stand but I reach out and grab his arm.
"Wait! What about Blair . . .?" I hadn't heard, or maybe I did and my brain refused to process it. But whatever the reason, I still didn't know what happened to my friend.
He eases back into the chair and looks at me. "He's going to need you Jim. He's going to need all of us this time. We can't . . .." his voice chokes and he pauses, looking away quickly. Finally, he clears his throat and goes on. "We can't let him down again."
This time it's me lending a supportive hand. "I know. I won't," I promise, because I know that it was me, not them, who really let Blair down. Who is still letting him down, hanging back after he threw himself back into our friendship, into my life.
"The blast threw him across the room. They don't know if he hit the wall or the floor, but either way, the damage was done." He's still not looking at me.
"How bad?" I force out.
"Bad. His skull is fractured and they're worried about injury to his spinal cord. That's all I know."
I draw in a deep breath and stare at the closed door. "What happened?" I need something to remove the picture of a lifeless, dead Blair from my mind. Something that can replace the image of that damn fountain and Blair's floating body.
"They think it was a bomb. Had to have been. Nothing else would have been so contained." Simon heaves a sigh and pushed out of his chair. "Let's go."
He's grabbing his coat and is out the door before I'm even on my feet. I scramble after him, grateful that I'm not the only one thrown for a loop here. I ignore the curious looks we're getting from the other detectives and riffraff milling around the bullpen and grab my coat, meeting up with Simon at the elevator. We're both silent on the way to the hospital.
The ER's busy-it usually is, no matter what time of the day or night. But today it seems unusually so. We have to literally push our way to the admit desk. Simon reaches the counter first and is leaning across, holding out his badge.
"I need to know the status of the two victims of the Redwood bombing!" he nearly shouts at the clerk.
The clerk is a wet behind the ears college kid and he squints behind his glasses as he looks at first Simon and then me looming behind my boss.
"Can I see that badge again? I can't just give out info to anyone who asks," he spouts.
Simon narrows his eyes and the kid steps back. Before he can take another both Simon and my badges are in his face and we're glaring outright now. His hand quivers, just slightly, as he reaches for my badge. Figures he'd ignore Simon and go for the white guy. I snatch mine back and jerk my head towards Simon.
"He's the boss kid," I snarl.
His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and he takes Simon's badge and quickly glances at it before handing it back. "Just a minute," he says before disappearing into the throng.
I let my attention wander around the busy space, not really noticing anything in particular. Simon's voice draws my attention back to the here and now.
"Damn kid," he snaps and I look in the direction he's staring. The clerk is over at the other end of the reception area, dickering with a mother clutching a small child. What the hell?
I turn to charge around the desk and nearly collide with a doctor approaching from the other direction.
"Detectives?" she asks as she draws near.
Simon steps forward with his hand out. "Captain Banks, Major Crimes division." He nods in my direction. "This is Detective Ellison. What can you tell us?"
The doctor, a tall, gangly woman with frizzy hair pulled back in a ponytail, nods at me and addresses Simon. "Captain, I'm Dr. Sweeney, Chief of Emergency Services. First off, both victims have been moved to surgery.
"Ms. Mercado has third degree burns on roughly forty percent of her face and head, neck and upper chest area, as well as her arm."
My stomach roils angrily and I clench my teeth, barely noticing the heavy hand settle on my shoulder. I struggle to push down my fear and anger, and focus on the doctor.
"She has second degree burns extending down her chest. Her face and her left hand received most of the damage. Her hand must have been almost on top of the bomb. They may not be able to save what's left of her hand-the damage was extreme. The bones in that arm were essentially shattered by the blast, the elbow and shoulder dislocated. The skin received third degree burns. The damage to her face was extensive. She will need numerous surgeries to rebuild her ear, nose, mouth and chin. Thanks to the advance in burn care, her chances of survival are improved, but infection is always a risk and she will need intensive care for quite some time in the burn unit."
She paused, allowing us time to digest her report and at Simon's slight nod, she continued, giving the report I both dreaded and needed to hear.
"Mr. Sandburg came in with a blunt force head trauma and possible spinal cord injury, which an MRI has already ruled out. However, there is swelling around the cord and four cracked vertebrae. Mr. Sandburg will be looking forward to a lengthy recovery in traction for that alone."
I grit my teeth and force myself to continue listening-I know I should feel relieved, but its damn hard.
"As for the head trauma, his skull was fractured and fluid was collecting around his brain. He is in surgery at the moment to install a shunt to drain the fluid, which will hopefully allow his brain to heal more easily. There is swelling in his brain-once the shunt is in place he will be treated with drugs to reduce the swelling. As far as damage, we won't know until later. He did receive minor, first degree burns over his face and arms, but those will heal with no lasting scars."
She stops again and waits. "You can obtain copies of all pertinent records down one level in B14, the Records Office."
Simon nods and asks, "And where can we wait for an update?"
It's obvious she doesn't realize that we're more than just investigating officers, as she's tapping her foot and casting looks towards the clock on the wall next to us. "Ms. Mercado will be moved to the Burn Unit on the fifth floor and Mr. Sandburg will be taken to the Critical Care Unit on two."
Finally giving in to her need to be elsewhere, she prompts, "If you don't need anything else?"
"Oh, no. Thank you for your time," Simon says and I watch as she hurries away to join in the care of a bloody kid being pushed in on a stretcher.
With his back to me, Simon growls out a low, "Let's go," and begins to walk towards the elevators as I trail along behind. How did this happen? He was supposed to be safe, doing his own thing. Living his own life. Something like this wasn't supposed to happen-not now. Not ever.
An arm on my hand stops my forward movement and I glance over at Simon. He's holding something in his hands and I frown.
"What's that?"
"This?" he says, holding up what looks like a file. "Oh, this is just the initial report from the ER. Which I just got from medical records. While you were busy staring at the wall. You want to spend a little more time in la la land or are you ready to go upstairs?"
I turn away and jab the elevator button. It's already glowing white, but I jab it again. We're silent until we get to the fifth floor. I'm not ready to see Blair, and I need to know-to see how bad Angeline really is. The damage the doctor was talking about, I'd seen similar damage, some better, some worse in combat. But it wasn't something I'd ever expected to have to see in this life.
It feels like we've been waiting hours-we probably have-when a doctor in surgeon's scrubs approaches us.
"Captain Banks?" he asks as he slumps down in a chair next to Simon. At Simon's nod, he pulls a brightly colored cap off his head revealing shiny, wet skin. "I'm Doctor Kilpatrick, Chief of Surgery. I headed up the team working on Ms. Mercado," he says, extending his hand.
Simon grasps it like a lifeline and then remembers me. "I'm sorry," he says, tearing his eyes from the doctor's face and pats my back. "This is Detective Ellison-while he's not officially working on the bombing, he is a good friend of Ms. Mercado's."
The doctor looks surprised as he takes my hand. "Detective," he says, before launching into his horrifying tale.
"The surgery went as well as can be expected. We had a team working on her arm and then on her face. There wasn't much we could do for her face at this time-we'll need to wait for the burns to heal before we attempt any real reconstruction. But for now, she's able to breathe. Amazingly, her jaw wasn't shattered as was first suspected, but was grossly displaced. We've inserted wires to allow her jaw to heal. Her nose is another story. Basically, it was destroyed and will need to be rebuilt. For now, breathing tubes have been inserted to keep the nasal passages open and provide oxygen." He paused and his hand reached up, fingers tugging distractedly at his earlobe.
"Most of her ear was destroyed as well and will need further work. Once the burns are adequately healed, we'll schedule the surgeries together to minimize the trauma for Ms. Mercado. The eardrum was shattered and in all likelihood, there will be permanent hearing loss in that ear. We will be bringing in a specialist to attend to that aspect of Ms. Mercado's care however, so his prognosis may differ."
It's a lot of information to take in at once and I rub my eyes warily. "Her arm?" I prompt. I'm tired and I really want to go see Blair.
Kilpatrick sighs and stretches his neck. "We were able to salvage her wrist, lower hand and thumb. It was more than we'd hoped for to be honest. After the hand heals from this surgery, and we see what shape it takes, she can be fit for a prosthesis. The ulna and radius bones were broken in several places-we had to stabilize the breaks with pins and screws. Both the elbow and shoulder were dislocated but should heal with no lingering problems. We did have to repair extensive nerve and tendon damage but that also should heal well." Sighing he stood.
"I know it doesn't sound good gentlemen, but right now it's really wait and see. The extensive burns Ms. Mercado received from the explosion are the gravest concern. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got another surgery in two hours and I'd like to catch some shuteye."
I lean back and shut my eyes, letting Simon see the doctor off. This is so unbelievable and it pisses me off. I am just so fucking angry I could hit something. I can feel my hand curling into a fist just as a large but gentle weight settles over it. Simon. I open my eyes and look into his-willing him to see how hard this is for me.
"I know Jim-it's killing me too," he says softly. Damn, but he is getting good at reading me. I almost smile at the thought. He grips my hand harder and then stands.
"Let's go see the kid."
It didn't take us long to find out that Blair was out of recovery and settled in his own room. I was prepared for bad, but this is so much worse. Blair, my Blair-my friend, is an array of burnt skin, singed hair, mottled bruises, all rolled up in a trapeze like contraption that is holding him immobile and looking as pathetic as I've ever seen. There's a large white bandage near the back of his head and it draws my attention. I almost miss the fact that Blair's eyes are open and are watching us watch him.
"Hey," I say gently, moving forward. I drag the vinyl chair closer and drop into it, taking his hand in mine. His eyes follow my movements and I realize too late that the brace around his neck is keeping him from seeing me clearly. I stand and lean over him so he can see me better.
"How're you doing?" I whisper. He doesn't respond, but his eyes slide away from me and settle on Simon.
Simon never ceases to amaze me. I've known him a long time, but I tend to forget he has such a soft side. I guess being captain means being the bad guy and seeing the big, bad captain soothe and coddle with the best, well, it's just eerie.
"Hey Blair, how're you doing kid?" he croons as he slips his large hand into Blair's lax one and rubs his thumb over Blair's pale skin. "You gave us quite the scare. You really need to stop doing that-I'm too old for these kinds of phone calls."
My vision expands until just two hands fill it: one pale-almost translucent and still, the other a rich cacophony of browns that radiates warmth and comfort. I startle when Blair's fingers tense then wrap slightly around Simon's. My own fingers suddenly feel as though they're caught in a vise and I shake them lose. I catch my mistake but not in time. Blair's eyes slide towards me then away, quickly filling with tears.
"Hey kiddo, don't do that. You just startled me. I dialed up, way up. Guess I forgot some of those lessons you taught me," I explain, my own hand going up to brush hair away from his eyes.
I smile at his whispered, "Dial it down."
"I'll do that," I say, relieved to hear his voice. Until this moment, I wasn't sure there wasn't some sort of brain damage going on.
"Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up. I promise." He's trying so hard to stay awake, but there's no need. I'd slipped my hand back around his, and a tiny squeeze draws my attention again.
"Angi?" he asks, his eyes darting between Simon and I.
Simon leans over and looks Blair right in the eye. "She's alive Blair. She had to have surgery, like you, and she came through with flying colors."
He's leaving out the grimmer details, like hearing loss, reconstructive surgery, and prosthetics but Blair doesn't need to know any of that this soon. He has his own battle to fight.
I catch Simon's attention and nod towards the door. I turn back to Blair.
"Hey Chief, we're going to grab a quick bite to eat. You need to sleep and get some strength back. We'll see you soon."
He nods and his eyes drift shut and within seconds he's sleeping peacefully. Simon and I slip out into the hall.
"Where the hell's his doctor?" I growl. I want some assurances and I want them now. My friend is lying there after having surgery on his brain and spine and I want to know-no, I need to know how worried I should be.
It takes some time, but his doctor eventually arrives and gives us a run down of what to expect. The traction is to stabilize his back while his fused spine heals. Four vertebrae fractured in the blast that threw him across a room and into a shut door. He'll be in that contraption for several weeks before graduating to a body cast. Then months of rehabilitation and he'll still have limited motion and lifting ability as a result of the rod attached to the section of vertebrae that took the hit the hardest. But his spinal cord escaped damage, and if a month, or six months in traction means that it stays that way, then so be it.
His brain scans look good-the shunt they installed in his brain has released the pressure that was building up around the spot where his head met the wall. Various medications will ensure that the swelling goes down and stays down. He'll have to sit through lots more tests and scans before the doctor will be completely satisfied, but that's okay. Because Blair is going to be okay-he has to be.
I'd really thought that I was over this. I thought that I didn't need him anymore. I've tried so hard to convince myself that I was okay, better than okay, because I was finally standing on my own two feet. God, I was so wrong. What must he have felt in these months since I spilled his drink in that dark pub? He took me at my word that I was happy to see him-that I was happy that his life had come to what I considered a pretty successful juncture. But now I can finally see, will finally admit, that all this time I'd been wishing I'd been somewhere else that night.
I know he knows. He's not stupid and if anyone has ever known me, it's him. He's always known when I was hiding something, or when I was afraid. Did he think that I would push him away again if he said anything? What made him keep his silence? Did I mean so much to him, even after all the times I did push him away, punished him when my life went awry, that he would endure my silent abuse with nary a murmur?
He's changed these last few years, I'd thought for the better. But I can see now that so much of that renewed confidence is a sham. I wanted to believe that it was all coming together for him. I didn't want to worry about him. I'd convinced myself that Blair was a survivor-that he'd land on his feet no matter what. But I was wrong. And I wasn't alone in donning the blinders. No one spoke of Blair after I'd dismissed him from my life. It was as if he'd died-no, it was like he'd been erased. And after all this time, after being abandoned to deal with the fallout on his own, he still tries so hard to keep us near him.
I've often wondered how his life would have turned out if he had never met me. Would he have finished his doctorate? Would he have still written a Nobel-Prize-worthy piece of art? Would he be married by now, with tiny little Sandburgs running amuck? Or would he be off making contact with faraway cultures, writing book after book full of world changing observations?
But he did meet me and we can't change that. I'm starting to wonder if someone or something out there keeps bringing us together. I've finally come to accept my senses, and even accept the whole mystical aspect of being a Sentinel. I've never wanted to rely on anyone, not for anything. I've never really known how. But when Blair walked into my life, I found myself so out of control it scared me. And it wasn't just because I was out of control, but because someone else-Blair, had somehow taken that control into his own hands.
Would he have understood that? I'd never bothered to explain. I'd assumed he always knew, but now I think he never did. How could he? I never let on. I let him believe that his role in my life was limited to whispered directions to dial down my hearing or dial up my eyesight. I let him teach me about piggybacking one sense onto another. I even let him strap me into weird contraptions that flashed strobe lights into my eyes. But I never let him know how much of my life he had really changed.
You'd think for a smart guy he would have figured it out. I mean, we went almost everywhere together. I let him live with me. He came on far more stakeouts and participated in more sting operations than most seasoned flatfoots. And when I realized how much I'd come to rely on him, not just for my senses, but as my friend, I began to push him away. And still he didn't figure it out.
My one true sin in all of this, is letting it go on for so long that we ended up in this situation. I should have cut him loose years ago. But I couldn't.
I see him lying in that hospital room and I am so ashamed. For a smart guy, you'd think I would have figured it out long before now.
I need him. I always have.