Disclaimer: All characters who have appeared in the UPN-TV series, "The Sentinel" are the properties of UPN and Pet Fly Productions. All original characters belong to the author. No infringement on the rights held by any to "The Sentinel" characters, name or stories is intended. No money is changing hands or profit being made on this story.
Author's Comments: Thanks again to Wolfpup, for giving my fiction a home filled with pretty pictures. And to my cousin Heidi, who graciously puts up with my plot arguments, and quickly leaves the room when an idea gets into my head.
Rated PG-13.
Feedback may be sent to Crideon@aol.com
Carolyn
"Fear can supplant our real problems only to the extent -- unwilling either to assimilate
or to exhaust it -- we perpetuate it within ourselves like a temptation and enthrone it at the very
heart of our solitude."
-- E. M. Cioran The Temptation to Exist
Three men, in three different parts of the city, were lost within the struggles of their own minds.
These men were friends. At different times, they played different roles in each others' lives -- brother, father, son, superior, subordinate, student, teacher, partner, companion, roommate, confidante -- and the bond between them was strong.
That bond was being sorely tested now.
Without the presence of the others, each man fought inner demons that might have been banished by the compassion of these friends. Two sought solitude on their own volition, the other's solitude was imposed on him by the injuries to his body.
"No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as
fear."
-- Edmund Burke The Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful
Captain Simon Banks sat in his office in Major Crimes, having reluctantly left Mercy Hospital. His desire for justice warred strongly with his need to remain nearby in case Blair Sandburg lost his struggle for life. But there was another danger out there that needed to be addressed, and quickly.
Detective Rafe had delivered some very disturbing news to him while he waited for an update on the anthropologist's condition. Forensics had determined that the bullet the surgeons had removed from the observer did not match either of the weapons found on the Calkins brothers. Preliminary measurements indicated that the shot had come from a position other than where Jim had said the brothers were hiding. That meant that someone else had fired the shot. Simon had to let Jim know that he might still be a target.
Thoughts of the detective filled the captain with a myriad of emotions -- shame for the quick accusation and the brutal way in which he had informed him of his partner's grave condition; anger, still, at the man for leaving Blair, even though he knew now that Jim hadn't known of his partner's wounds; fury at the Calkins brothers, for the part they had played in the tragic events; frustration with the absence of leads on the shooter, the new piece in this disturbing puzzle.
But above all, Simon was afraid that this experience would change the Sentinel irrevocably. Could Jim possibly forgive him for his ability to assume the worst about his friend? Could he forgive himself? What in God's name had made him think that Jim would leave Blair on purpose? His reaction had frightened him. What had he been thinking? Shoving Jim against a wall, then down to the ground in front of the pool of his partner's blood? How could Jim possibly cope with the events of the day in the face of his partner's injuries and his captain's scorn? Captain? Hell, he was supposed to be Jim's friend for crying out loud. What right did he have to burden him with more responsibility than he deserved?
Was it Blair who triggered this deep emotion in him or Jim?
Jim was his friend, perhaps his closest friend. But Blair had won a place in his heart as well. He saw himself as a father figure to the young man, and was at times as proud and protective of him as he was of his own son. His current state of concern for the anthropologist was certainly more than he might have thought possible just a few short years ago. Thoughts that he would not have more time to further deepen their new found affinity filled him with dread.
At this very moment, Blair might be breathing his last, his strong heart quitting due to the strain of injuries more deadly than his will to survive. Simon recalled seeing the usually energetic young man lying pale and still in the ICU -- his bright eyes closed, a respirator filling his damaged lungs, tubes and needles extending from his body, a monitor beeping in time with his heart...
Simon shook his head abruptly and rubbed his hands across his face. This was not the time to dwell on his fears. It was time to go and find Jim. Regardless of how the detective might react to him, Simon needed to make sure Jim was safe. The rest he could deal with later.
"There is the fear that we shan't prove worthy in the eyes of someone who knows us at least
as well as we know ourselves. That is the fear of God. And there is the fear of Man -- fear that
men won't understand us and we shall be cut off from them."
-- Robert Frost
Alone in the loft, Jim Ellison sat on the couch, a lukewarm beer forgotten in his hand. He had intended to only be here long enough to shower and change his clothes, but overwhelming emotion drove him to the couch, where he remained, hours later.
He desperately tried to recall the events leading to the shooting, tried to determine how he could have missed the unmistakable sound of a gun shot. The effort was fruitless. He needed Blair to anchor him for this sort of digging through his memories. All the wrong images and sounds kept blazing through his mind.
Simon's fists, bunched in his collar as he smashed him against the wall of the warehouse -- so similar to the way Jim had accosted Blair at their first meeting. The white tape outline where Blair had lain bleeding -- where Jim had left him. The too-big pool of his partner's blood -- the blood he had zoned on instead of helping gather evidence to catch whomever had done this to him. The sympathetic faces in the sea of hospital personnel -- a number fewer than those who looked at him accusingly. The horribly slow pace of the wall clock, which had counted out ten long hours -- hours that Blair had spent in the OR, while a team of doctors had struggled to save his life. The bloodied surgical scrubs on the physician who had tiredly delivered the words Jim had dreaded hearing.
"We've done everything we can, gentlemen. All we can do now is wait...and pray."
Simon had ordered him home for a shower at that point. Jim still carried his gun and shield -- his captain had not followed through on his threat of suspension -- so, following the direct order the captain had made, he agreed to leave the hospital, fully intending to return quickly.
Instead, here he sat, helplessly cataloguing the sounds, sights and scents of the quiet loft.
His senses were still with him, despite all his attempts to shut them down. When he had almost killed that security guard, his senses had left him quicker than thought. Not now, though. Now, the very abilities which had failed to keep his partner safe acted as constant reminders of his absence.
His hearing picked up the whirring of the fan in the kitchen; the subtle hum of the electrical appliances and lights; the whoosh of passing cars; the low sounds from a television coming from the apartment below -- all the sounds except for the one he desperately needed to hear in his home, the beating of his partner's heart.
He could also smell faint reminders of Blair. The cologne he had used after shaving; the dark French roast coffee he had brewed that morning, insisting he needed the extra strong blend to get going; the traces of herbal shampoo and conditioner from his shower -- all dissipating as the night wore on. Jim struggled against the urge to enter the younger man's room, where his scent lingered more heavily.
The living room, too, showed signs of his friend's presence. The colorful blanket resting on the back of the opposite couch; the strange collection of books and tribal figures nestled on the shelves; the green walls they had painted together; the scattering of papers Blair had been planning to grade strewn across the coffee table -- Blair's unique touch had landed heavily on this room.
Oh dear God, what if Blair didn't pull through? Terror like nothing the former Ranger had ever known coursed through him.
Jim brought the bottle of beer up to his lips with a shaking hand, grimacing at the warmth of the brew. He had set out to drink himself into forgetfulness, but the first bitter taste of the beer in his hand had also been his last. He needed a clear head now, to remember, and to be ready in case Blair needed him.
Who did he think he was he fooling?
Blair could not possibly need him now. Blair would despise him for letting him down, for failing to use the senses the kid was so damned proud of to help save his partner's life. He must have known all along that one day it would come to this -- all those tests he had tried to administer and Jim had avoided. Would one of them have given Jim the control he needed to change the outcome of this morning?
Jim placed the beer bottle down, noticing as he did that his hands still shook. Resolving to drown the fear that had filled his soul, he walked to the kitchen for a much stronger drink.
Uncapping the bottle of scotch and tilting it to his lips, he drank deeply.
"It is the perpetual dread of fear, the fear of fear, that shapes the face of a brave man."
-- Georges Bernanos The Diary of a Country Priest
Somewhere deep inside his conscience, Blair Sandburg's mind was racing furiously. This was a place he had been before, this mysterious limbo.
His scientific mind understood that it was deep unconsciousness, perhaps even a coma, brought on by his body's need to heal the injuries he had sustained without interference from his higher functions. Some more wistful part of his brain, that part which had pored over countless stories of death and afterlives, felt that he was in the Place of Choosing, where his soul would either return to its corporeal form -- to suffer through the body's healing processes -- or move on to a different plane of existence. It would be his own conscious decision to move on or fight for life.
He had been here before.
While struggling against the devastating effects the drug Golden had inflicted on him, he had used this odd fugue state as a chance to reflect on the time he had spent working with Jim, his Sentinel. Tests he had given to his friend were recalled; new avenues of study on the man's extraordinary senses were planned; the mistakes of the past were glossed over and catalogued; the more important moments of friendship and belonging were recalled with fondness.
All in all, he had been in a big hurry to get back to his friend. This time, though, was different.
This time he was afraid.
Wisps of memory came to him as he drifted, becoming clearer the longer he lingered here. The strongest were memories of Simon's angry face as he held the bleeding anthropologist. He knew part of that anger was directed at the man who had shot Blair. A stronger part of that rage, though, was directed at Jim. Blair had tried desperately to tell Simon that Jim had no idea he had been wounded, but to no avail. Had Simon arrived a few minutes earlier, he might have had the breath to explain. His disjointed words, however, had done more to convince the captain that Jim had callously pursued the suspects while ignoring the critical injuries to his friend.
Blair knew differently.
Jim had been focusing too closely on the movement of the Calkins brothers, and had never seen the other man whose rifle had aimed at the Sentinel's heart. Blair had seen him, though, and did the only thing he could do. His breath had caught in his throat -- no words would come out in time to warn his friend, so he had acted.
In this wafting existence, Blair had the luxury of playing the scene over and over in his mind, and knew for a fact that Jim would never have survived the bullet. He could see the shooting with Sentinel clarity -- had 'watched' it enough times now to be sure -- and knew that his body had intercepted Jim's death shot.
For that, he had no regrets.
But the shooter -- Blair had not recognized the man's face. He had only seen the gun's muzzle before his frantic dive towards his friend. Who was he? What if that man tried to finish the job? What if Jim zoned out and made himself an easy target? Would Simon's investigation turn up evidence of the shooter? Would he watch the Sentinel's back until Blair was well again? Was his body wounded seriously enough that the decision would be taken out of his hands?
No. Blair would not let himself believe that. It was time to start fighting his way back. He was afraid -- afraid of the pain he knew he would endure, afraid that he would be too late to help Jim cope with what had happened, afraid of how Simon was coping with the tragic events.
But Jim needed him. Simon needed him. And he needed them.
His decision made, the young anthropologist swallowed his fear and began the journey back towards his battered corporeal form.
"The man who has ceased to fear has ceased to care."
-- F. H. Bradley
The End (for now)