My take on why Jim... well you'll see... Blair is a detective -- but it's not integral to the story. Humor and a little HC or maybe BB (boo-boos and bitching) PG maybe 13.
Lilguppee beta'd this one, but the errors are mine alone.
"I HAVE HAD IT!!!" Blair Sandburg had to balance on his toes to do it, but he stood nose to nose with James Ellison. "At first I wrote it off. Figured it had something to do with the..." he looked around cautiously, "...senses. Hell, it even got to be kind of a joke. But, when it almost gets me killed, I've got to admit, it's starting to FREAK -- ME -- OUT!!!"
"Calm down, Chief." Jim brushed off the grit and gravel clinging to the younger man's coat and hair.
It was supposed to have been an easy bust. A hood that had been selling automatic weapons to high school kids was caught on tape, several times. All that was left was for Jim and Blair to arrest him. It should have been simple. Blair had the young hoodlum handcuffed, when Jim heard a slight sound behind them. Gun in hand, he whirled on the broken pavement and... dropped his gun. A shabbily dressed, older man rose from his hiding place, a forty-five clutched in shaking hands. He hesitated for an instant, then fired.
The tall detective was no longer there, though. He had tackled his partner, and tumbled them both into a pile of garbage and debris behind a dumpster. His back-up piece was in his hand and seconds later Jim had both perps covered. To say his squashed and battered partner was cussing would be an understatement. An almost visible blue cloud of profanity hovered over the filthy alley.
Their back up showed, and took the miscreants to jail, and frankly the two bad guys looked sort of grateful to be leaving. An ambulance arrived, and the paramedics stood at the mouth of the alley, apparently confused.
In general Blair looked like a man who had come between almost two hundred pounds of muscle, and pile of broken bricks and concrete. His hands and face were scraped and bloody; his almost new tweed jacket was a total loss.
Jim bent to pick up his gun with his left hand, shaking his right hand vigorously. "Let's go get you checked out, buddy."
Still grumbling, Blair followed him to the ambulance. The medics began to check the younger man as Jim stood to the side, his right hand massaging his left arm. "Bruise your elbow on my ribs, Jim?" he asked sarcastically when he saw the older mans actions.
"Nah, it's just my hands are kind of tingly and numb." Jim looked uncomfortable and started rubbing his right arm.
"Sir?" The female paramedic took his arm and led him to the ambulance. "Please come over here and sit down." In short order, Jim was wired, IV'd, aspirin'd, and flat on his back, on the way to the hospital.
Blair rode in the front, his fear tearing at him. Damn those freakin' Wonderburgers. Oh God, what if Jim was having a heart attack -- while I was standing there shouting at him. Please -- God -- I'll be better. I'll do better. Just let him be OK.
Fighting for breath, he followed while they wheeled Jim into the ER. The gurney disappearing was the last thing he saw before the world went black.
"No, it wasn't life threatening." The doctor spoke to the two men watching their friend sleep. "Stress, combined with a cracked rib led to his..."
"...he's awake, you know." The voice grumbled from under the blankets.
"Shush, Sandburg." Simon ordered.
"Stress, combined with a cracked rib," the doctor continued, dryly, "led to his anxiety attack."
"I'm fine." The recumbent figure snapped as he looked at the third man. "How are you?"
"OK." Jim shrugged.
"OK!" Blair kicked at the blankets and hopped -- ok, slid slowly and carefully -- off the tall bed. "I thought you were having a heart attack?"
"Nope, just a couple symptoms, numbness and stuff." Jim gave the doctor a sideways glance. "They said I have to come back for some tests, though."
Simon looked at his best team. "Best hurry up and get those tests. You aren't coming back to work till you do."
"Simon," Jim complained. "I don't have time..."
"HE KEEPS DROPPING THINGS!" Blair announced rather loudly, before he remembered he was in a hospital. "Important things."
"Hummm." The doctor evidently hadn't heard this from his patient.
"Aw, Chief." Jim surrendered to the inevitable, and turned to the doctor. "When can I get the tests?"
And so Jim spent the next day having tests. The heart tests showed nothing, but the stress test was kinda fun. The doctors got exasperated and kept speeding up the treadmill, trying to tire the stubborn detective.
But it was the last test that was the pip. It hurt. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. The doctor kept shocking the nerves in his arms with a little electric needle/prod. If we did this to a prisoner it would be considered torture, Jim thought sullenly. He dialed down the pain, but that stupid little prick (the instrument, not the doctor) kept hitting nerves.
Finally, he joined his partner in the waiting room. "I have Carpal Tunnel syndrome." He made his escape from the office, his paperwork in hand.
"What are they going to do about it?"
"He didn't say. From what I read over his shoulder, the right hand might need surgery."
"Sorry, Jim." Blair knew that his friend was annoyed at him, and the world in general, right now. "But it's good that they can fix it, right?"
"Yeah, I guess so," Jim grinned. "You know? With all the typing you do -- maybe you should get one of those Carpal tests, too."
"You think so?" Blair looked up at him with those damn, trusting eyes and Jim sighed.
"Nah." He playfully cuffed the curly head. "Not until you start dropping your gun."
Back to The Loft