Disclaimer: The Sentinel and its characters are the property of Pet Fly, UPN, Paramount, and The SciFi Channel
Much appreciation goes to Kathleen (K) for her beta work.
Carole
"Detective Ellison, Cascade Police. You returned my call about a John Doe." The nurse looks at me sympathetically as I introduce myself. Maybe she remembers the desperate, empty sound of my voice. Maybe she can hear it even now. She nods as she checks her records and then steps away from the desk.
"This way, Detective."
As we walk down the long hallway I remember how many times I have done this. How many times I have eagerly entered a hospital room only to find myself looking at a stranger. How many times I have opened up my senses to search for his heartbeat and found only silence. My hopes have been dashed time and time again, but still I follow her.
I have his wallet safely tucked away in the top drawer of his dresser. His backpack is resting on the floor next to the front door, just under the jacket he forgot to wear that morning. His anthropology textbook, pages wet from the rain, sits on top of his desk. Why these things were left next to his car in the deserted parking lot of Rainier University, I don't know. I just know that I have to hold on to his things until I find him. Until I can give them back.
We stop at room 321. After nodding my thanks to the nurse, I enter the darkened room and quietly walk toward the figure in the bed. I feel my jaw clench tightly as my eyes study the shape and size of the unconscious patient. Small build. The light from the hallway filters through the partially open door and illuminates the man's face. Faded and fading bruises are surrounded by long, curly dark hair.
I gasp as I realize that, if his eyes were open, they would be blue. A whisper is forced through my almost frozen lips. "Blair?"
There is no response, no movement, so I try again a little louder. "Blair?"
"Detective?"
I smile and nod as I meet the questioning eyes of the nurse. She smiles back as I reach for a chair and pull it close to his bed. One hand is next to his side, IV inserted into a swollen vein. His other hand is outstretched, near the edge of the mattress. I reach through the safety bars and take his hand in mine.
His heartbeat is beating at a steady, even pace. His scent, which had been pushed to the background by the various hospital odors, fills my nose. If I concentrate, I can feel the whorls notched into his fingertips. My eyes close as I let his familiarity surround me.
The steady beeping from the machine behind his bed is one of a thousand noises in the early morning hours, but his heartbeat is the only sound I hear. My hand is still wrapped around his, as it has been for more hours than I want to think about, but I'm not ready to let go yet. My other hand is stroking his hair, a soothing motion that comforts me. I study his face for the millionth time, needing the reassurance that he is really here. There are lines of pain on his face, lines I wish I could erase with the touch of my hand.
I have to be careful not to zone for without my Guide I would be lost. I've already been drawn in by the sound of his breathing, mesmerized by the rise and fall of his chest, hypnotized by the feel of the soft curls under my hand.
"Detective Ellison?"
The soft voice startles me and I turn to see the night nurse enter the room. Time for rounds again. Reluctantly, I let go of his hand, moving back to allow the nurse the needed room to work. But I don't move too far away. Pulse and temperature are checked, IV bags are replaced and now the bandages which cover his wounds are being removed. I watch as she cleans, medicates, and then rebandages.
"They look better," she remarks as she makes the necessary notations on her clipboard. She thinks she is comforting me, but she doesn't realize that my medical training gives me an insight into his injuries which I would prefer not to have. I know he is far from being well. I move back to my position next to his bed as she leaves and take his hand again.
His hand is cold and I lean forward to tuck the blanket closer to his sleeping form. A yawn forces its way out as exhaustion tries to send me back into the world between wakefulness and sleep, but my mind and my body do not cooperate this time. Memories of a dream consume my thoughts. I think it was a dream. Maybe it was a vision. Sandburg would know. I saw the black panther curled around a wolf, a grievously wounded wolf. As the wolf whimpered in pain, the panther licked his wounds gently. Dream or vision, the meaning is clear. I'm to take care of my Guide.
As I look at him, he opens his eyes and looks at me in confusion. It's the second time he's awakened since I arrived. I've read his charts, discovered that he had remained unconscious during the early hours of this hospital stay. Is it my presence which has made the difference?
"Blair?" I call softly, but his eyes are already closed. I wonder if he knows I'm here. Does he even know who I am? The doctor says his slow return to consciousness is normal. He's recovering from injuries which could have killed him. The nurses have told me on more than one occasion that I should expect it to take some time before he's fully aware of his surroundings, fully aware of me. I've been warned there could be some memory loss. Have I found my Guide only to discover that I've lost him?
The tests have shown he is battered and bruised on almost every part of his body, both inside and out. Was it a mugging? A kidnapping gone wrong? Something else? Where had he been before he was found in the park, lying under carefully manicured bushes? Maybe he'll be able to tell me when he wakes up. A part of me doesn't want to make him remember, but I need to know if he is still at risk, still in danger.
I hear a soft noise from the bed. He's still asleep, but moves his other hand to push an errant curl away from his face. Such a familiar motion. Now he's still again. So quiet. But I hear his soft breathing. I see the measured rise of his chest with every breath he takes. As hard as it is to see him like this, it is nothing short of a miracle.
The smell of cigar smoke precedes Simon as he quietly steps into the room. His eyes are drawn to the figure which has held my attention for the last six hours. He winces as he notes the bruises, bruises which are more evident in the soft light of the morning sun as it shines through the window.
"How is he?"
I am unable to respond and his eyes echo the pain in my own. He drops off a small duffel bag in the hopes I will take time to meet my own needs. I give him a nod of thanks, appreciating his concern, but we both know my needs are overshadowed by those of my Guide.
Something wakes me up and I open my eyes to glance over at the bed. He doesn't look any different; eyes are closed, breathing is steady, but I can feel the difference. When I clasp his fingers, I find a pressure which wasn't there before. I gently squeeze his hand and as I do, he opens his eyes.
"Blair?" I hold my breath, waiting, hoping.
His eyes are questioning, just as they were during his brief periods of wakefulness during the night, but this time they are also clear and focused. He blinks a few times, then his lips move, his mouth tries to form a word. I lean closer to hear it. It is times like this I bless my Sentinel hearing.
"Jim."
It's just a whisper, but it's enough. Enough to reassure me that I am known to my Guide.
"I'm here, Chief. I'm here." Somehow I hold in my tears.
He nods his head and then closes his eyes again. I move slightly and his hand tightens over mine. Although weak, it is a grip of desperation.
"I'm not leaving. Go back to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up," I reassure him.
I can feel his hand relax and he is asleep again in moments.
I relax, too, feeling an overwhelming relief. For far too long, I have been desperately afraid of losing my partner, Guide, and best friend. Tears fall like rain as I realize my fear is finally at an end.
~end~
May 2000