Note: This story follows "No Center Line". It is assumed the reader has also read "Primary Focus" and "A Different Way of Seeing", and has watched the two-part episode "Sentinel, Too". Smarm warning. This story is written for an adult audience. lrhb@hotmail.com

AND DREAM THAT I AM HOME AGAIN

LRHBalzer

Half to forget the wandering and the pain
Half to remember days that have gone by
And dream and dream that I am home again...
James Elroy Flecker.

Pain woke him, dragging him, resisting, through layers of consciousness until he hovered on the edge of awake/not awake. Dreams vanished, fading toward nothingness. He struggled to reclaim them, but like a dandelion's seeds in a gentle breeze, they eluded his grasp, slipping away while he watched helplessly. Then, between one breath and the next, even the faint memories dissipated, leaving behind only the pain that had awoken him. He couldn't tell what exactly hurt, just that it was building, second by second. It had begun as a steady throbbing, echoing his pulse, an undefined ache in his right leg. Then he shifted, and the ache sharpened, localizing to his ankle.

He stilled immediately. The pain died down, leaving him trying to convince himself that it wasn't that bad. No need to wake any further. Everything was okay. The pain would go away. And even if it didn't, the rest of him was comfortable and warm, and he wasn't willing yet to leave his bed to find relief.

"I brought your pills."

With a gasp, he opened his eyes, fastening his attention first on the blurred image of the man who bent over him, and then, a blink later, to the darkened room he was in. The man he knew, but the context was wrong. Why is Simon in my bedroom in the middle of the night?

But then the room proved to be wrong, as well. Beyond Simon, he could see a cheap floral picture on the wall-- definitely not something I would put up-- and a heavily curtained window. Okay... Where am I?

"Blair?" Simon Banks sat beside him on the bed, looking at him strangely, gently. "Does your foot hurt?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice. Actually, not even finding his voice. Yeah, my foot and my head, too. And a few other places, now that you mention it, Simon. But the foot is definitely the worst at this particular moment.

Simon drew back the bedspread to check his foot, and Blair frowned when he saw he was lying on top of the blanket and sheets, not between them. And he was still wearing jeans and a T-shirt. So... that's a little weird, too. Why am I still dressed? I hate sleeping in my clothes. Was I drunk or something? Do I have a hangover? Is that why my head hurts? And what's that pink thing on my foot?

He peered blearily at Simon fussing with his leg, trying to see what he was doing. I did something to my leg. What did I do to my leg? There's a cast on it.

Why is it pink? Did I ask for pink? I should have said white. Or blue would have been nice. Denim blue, the same color as my jeans that they ripped so I could get them on over the cast. Maybe I should have taken Jim up on his offer to go buy me a pair of sweat pants to wear, but... I just can't. Not yet. Maybe never. Not after the sweat suits Jurgen made us wear. Color-coordinated hell.

What did I do to my leg?

"Here's some water, kid. You have three pills you need to take, then you might as well go back to sleep for another hour. If you're feeling rested, we can still go to dinner at six, then we need to hit the road."

He stared at the pills in Simon's hand. The words were all ones he knew, but they still didn't make much sense. Wasn't it the middle of the night? Why have dinner at six in the morning? Wouldn't breakfast be a better choice? And what road? Where was he, anyway? Not in the hospital...

There were too many questions, so Blair cleared his throat and asked the one question that might clear up all the others. "Uh, Simon... where's Jim?"

Simon's soft chuckle accompanied arms tightening around him and Jim's voice rumbling in his ear, "Right here, Chief."

Oh.

He couldn't seem to find the memory that would fill in the blanks. Like where he was, why he was in bed with his partner-- with Jim doing an octopus routine around him-- and why Simon seemed to think his question was cute or something.

Blair raised his head slightly, glancing over his shoulder. He was on his side, his head pillowed on Jim's right shoulder, drooling a bit on the man's T-shirt. Jim was reclining against the headboard of the double bed, his guide neatly tucked under his right arm. So, everything's cool here, right? I'm not dying or anything, am I? No one seemed freaked out, so he assumed this had been going on for a while.

He shifted slightly, trying to coordinate his limbs. Okay, so this arm here isn't mine. Jim's arms were wrapped around him rather possessively. Chill, man, I'm not going anywhere-- trust me.

Simon walked around to the other side of the bed, put the glass of water he was holding down on the floor, then reached for Blair. "Come on, Darwin, sit up."

"Huh?" Blair stared at the police captain, more confused than ever, wondering why the man was calling him 'darling'. That's kinda weird, Simon.

Jim's voice was low, as though he had been sleeping, too. "Why don't you sit up just a bit more and take the pills, Chief?"

Just a little disoriented here, Jim, in case you hadn't noticed. I have a feeling moving around isn't all it's cracked up to be. I might just want to stay right where I am, if it isn't going to be a major inconvenience or anything. I promise not to make a habit of using you as a pillow, but if I could just stay where I am for a while longer...

He really had to get this brain-to-mouth thing organized a bit better, because neither man had apparently heard him. Some sentinel you are, Jim.

Ignoring his unvoiced protest, the two men sat him up to swallow the pills and drink the offered glass of water. It took an inordinate amount of time to accomplish that little feat, as his brain seemed to have little say in how his body reacted. Open mouth. Drink water, swallow pill. Should be easy, but it all was strangely difficult, making his world slip further into the realm of the surreal. Finally, the deed was accomplished to everyone's satisfaction, and Jim eased him back, shifting him so his face wasn't against the damp part of Jim's T-shirt.

Which was considerate of him, Blair thought, considering who had caused the damp spot.

Boneless, he let his eyes close. This was nice. No apologies. No explanations. He needed this closeness and no one seemed to begrudge him the time. No one threatened to take it from him. They were talking-- he could hear them-- but the words hovered just beyond his grasp. He figured they would wake him up if he needed to know what they were saying.

As he drifted toward sleep, Simon adjusted his leg again, placing a pillow under his cast. Might as well put the pillow there, Simon. Thanks. Apparently Jim's chest works just as well for me.

Jim, I promise that I won't make a habit of this. It's just... well...

A door opened. "How are we doing for time? Should I be waking Evan up, yet?"

Yet another voice entered the room, and after mulling it over for a moment without coming up with a name, he forced his eyes open. They closed before he could see anything, so he tried again and saw Harvey Leek. Harvey's partner, Evan Cortez, was lying on the other bed, and Harvey was checking him over.

Hi, guys. What are you doing here? Visiting? Or--

He blinked and the details he'd wanted earlier surfaced, followed by more than he wanted, providing the answer to why his foot hurt-- his right ankle was broken-- and why they were all in a motel room in... in Seattle. He'd been in the Seattle General Hospital, both he and Evan because... because... Oh, God.

He started shaking. JimJimJimJimJimJim, he chanted, reminding himself, reassuring himself that Jim was there, but the pictures wouldn't leave his head. His own senses, normal as they were, provided him with graphic memories. The hands that had touched him, stroked him, fondled him. The leers, the threats, the words that had frightened him. The screams, his own and those of the others, the sounds of pain and panting. Gunfire. The smells of lotions and semen and damp earth and blood and death. And death and death and death-- the bodies. Sightless eyes staring at him. Mouths hanging open in endless silent screams. Flies hovering over slit throats. Trapped beneath the bodies in an open grave, with yet another corpse tossed on top of him, a lifeless, cold hand landing on his face.

He was whimpering, shivering, his fist in his mouth, rocking himself frantically, trying to block it all, trying to hide from the vivid, pressing images. JimJimJimJim His world was spiraling, totally out of control... except it wasn't.

Because Jim was still there, still holding him. Blair battled, trying to keep his rocking at the frenzied pace he had set, but Jim had his own idea of the correct tempo. The sentinel's arms held him, surrounded him, overwhelmed him, absorbing his feverish beat and replacing it with a slower, calming rhythm. Which was okay, because it was too frightening the other way. He couldn't breathe before, and now he could. His world stabilized, coming back to him.

His foot hurt. It really hurt. The pills aren't working, Jim.

"Just relax. I'm here. Shhhh."

I said, the pills aren't working... damn. He was crying again. What a waste of effort. As though crying would take away the memories or undo the things that were done to him. It was just because he was tired, and his emotions were a little raw, he supposed. What did he expect? He just got out of the hospital that morning, and he suspected Jim had to convince the doctor to let him go. The doctors at this hospital were a lot stricter about visiting hours. Jim hadn't been allowed much access to him after that first night. The doctors kept saying he needed his rest, but they didn't seem to get that he couldn't rest without Jim.

Why was that?

It never used to be like that. But since Mexico... since Alex... since dying... he needed Jim around.

So he'd know he would wake up in the morning.

I'm sorry, Jim. Thanks for being here. I'm sorry.

He was still crying. Big, almost silent, gulping sobs that made his head hurt. And his throat.

So why can I carry on a conversation in my head, while the rest of me is hysterically sobbing on my best friend's chest, being rocked like I was a two-year-old?

He didn't seem to be slowing down or anything. In fact, the sobs just got a little louder. Hysterical, for sure.

So what's freaking you out the most, Sandburg? Huh?

Gee, there's so much to choose from... let's see... I was raped. That seems to be the most obvious thing. That's what seems to be upsetting everyone else the most. That I was raped. But I haven't really had time to process that yet, and I don't remember much about it except the pain in my butt afterwards and all the questions and paperwork at the hospital.

Which reminds me-- I should send a thank-you card to Dr Morrison. He was really nice to me. I should let him know I'm okay. There should be medals for things like that. Going above and beyond the call of duty. He deserves one after dealing with us.

It was getting harder to breathe. He had to gasp for enough air to continue the wracking sobs which were majorly pissing off his bruised ribs. Jim's hand was doing a slow massage on his back that felt nice, but for some reason it wasn't working very well. Why am I still crying? Enough already! Geez, Sandburg.

Maybe it's because I was raped, but also because the other men died and I couldn't do anything about it. I helped rescue Evan and Scott, but Pat and Kelly died before help arrived. I really wanted to rescue them all. I thought I could. My plan was supposed to work...

There were so many bodies. I was in a fucking grave. The bodies... looking at me. Blood and brains sticking to them... That's what freaked me the most. Their eyes... their dead angry eyes... and Pete's face...

A sharp wail pierced his ears, and he was dismayed to realize that he was the one who made it. I sound like a banshee. Jim, can you get this under control for me? I'm making so much noise they're going to call the cops in to see what's wrong... ha, ha. That was supposed to be a joke. Why aren't I laughing? Huh? Huh, Jim? Huh?

Make this stop.

Hey! What the hell was that? Who put that thing on my face? Get it off!

He forced one eye open, the one that wasn't scrunched up against Jim's chest, but he couldn't really see anything. Everything was very blurry. What did he expect? He was still crying, after all. It had been a washcloth, he decided, feeling a little foolish for flinging it across the room. It had startled him, that's all. It had actually felt kinda nice, now that he thought about it, but it was a little late to figure that out.

Jim, I'm getting scared here. I can't stop crying. My chest hurts, and my ribs, even though I know you're holding me carefully so they won't get more damaged. My foot is throbbing. My head feels like it's going to explode. That's not a good sign, is it? Sorry for being such a wreck, but it kinda all hit me at once, I guess. You understand, right? Could you explain it to Simon and Harvey and Evan, if he's awake-- although I'm making so much noise that I don't see how he could possibly still be asleep. I certainly can't sleep with all this racket.

I'm just a bit frazzled, Jim. Tell them that, okay? I'm glad you've got your arms around me, because I really feel that I'm falling apart, and you won't let that happen, right? Just keep it together for me for a few more minutes. I'll try to stop, but I seem to have a mind of my own about this. Two minds, actually. The part of my brain that keeps talking and won't shut up and the part that's letting the rest of me have a nervous breakdown. I don't think it's gonna turn into a split personality or anything. Later, I'll have to get my emotional half and my mental half together on all this.

So like, I might break down again, but only so that I can do it right. This isn't dealing with anything, Jim; it's just emotional release, which you know about.

Mind you, you don't do it often enough-- it's probably what you've suspected it would be like, though, huh?

Whoa... another wave of being scared. This is so not good...

Jim? I need to stop all this. It's starting to hurt too much.

Jim!

"Jim, don't--" he heard Simon order, which didn't make a lot of sense.

But then the nicest thing happened. Just like his grandfather's old song, it felt like soothing oil poured down over him. Blair could feel it start at his head, easing the pounding headache, resting like a cool cloth on his forehead and over his eyes, then spreading to his sore throat and neck. It kept going, bathing his throat and chest in a warm comforting band, gliding over his ribs, padding the area and bracing it as his breathing calmed down and the deep hitches of air stopped and evened out. His stomach felt soothed, the cramping relaxed, and he almost felt hungry there for a minute. The places he hurt, like his anus and thighs, stopped burning and itching, and that horrible heavy, constipated feeling in his butt vanished. The pain in his right foot faded to a faint throbbing, just enough to remind him that something was mending there.

Jim's arms tightened around him, and he let himself drift into the sentinel, his eyes closed, listening to the beat of his partner's heart. He took a deep breath and exhaled sleepily, feeling the pull into unconsciousness that promised release from his tears.

Jim kissed his forehead, sealing a promise that Blair no longer wondered about.

As he let himself fall asleep, he did wonder at Simon's words, and what it was that Jim shouldn't do.

"Jim?" Simon Banks stood in the center of the room, holding the discarded washcloth and staring at Jim Ellison, hardly breathing himself until he saw the detective's chest expand to take in air. "Jim? Can you hear me?"

No answer, not that he had expected one. How the hell can you do that? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?

His face ashen, Ellison lay against the headboard, his partner still held tightly in his arms. While Sandburg appeared to be resting peacefully, breathing normally, and in no pain, Ellison looked just the opposite. He seemed more unconscious than asleep, his uneven breathing shallow, sweat beaded across his forehead and on his upper lip. His forehead was wrinkled in pain, his eyes tightly closed as if a massive migraine had clamped hold of him.

Simon groaned, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. What am I supposed to do now, Jim? How am I supposed to help? What the hell can I do?

He opened his eyes and stared at his detective. Ellison's nostrils were flared, as though he had taken a deep breath and zoned midway. Banks cautiously approached the bed and touched Ellison's forehead. "Jim?" he said, but the detective didn't seem to notice. "Jim!" he called out sharply, but the only effect his touch and presence had was Ellison tightened his hold on Sandburg.

Shit. Double fucking shit. Why can't this ever be easy? Banks rested his hands over his eyes, trying to think.

He really didn't know what to do. Stay? Go? Call for an ambulance? Or did they just need privacy? Did they need him at all, or should he just let this sentinel/guide thing proceed normally? Is this normal for them?

Sandburg was sleeping, though, peacefully draped over his partner, and Banks watched as Ellison moved slightly, his chin coming to rest against the top of Sandburg's head. That's where the man's focus was right now, consumed with restoring his guide. Maybe it was fitting it should be at such cost to him personally, after all that had happened between the two of them in the days and weeks before... the fountain.

Would all time now be divided into before or after 'the fountain'?

The cry of anguish-- how often had Simon heard it in his years on the police force? How many deaths mourned by loved ones? Never had one affected him, though, like Ellison's cry of denial at that fountain, bent over the lifeless body of his friend. Not even Sandburg's sobs aroused such a clenching in his own heart, echoing his friend's pain.

Banks rubbed blindly at his face, suddenly aware of tears that threatened to stream down his cheeks. Damn. He hadn't cried since... Sometimes those horrible moments a month before at the fountain at Rainier were far too vivid, too clear in his memory.

This was okay, though, he told himself firmly... Blair was alive. Jim was alive. I'll do what I can. They all would. Sandburg's alive, Jim. He's alive. Just hang cool.

Simon swallowed, allowing himself a moment to get it all back under control. He looked from Sandburg to Ellison. His focus had been on the younger man, but the older one was in need, as well. Blair was injured-- physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually-- and they would all make sure he was taken care of. Doctors, counselors, friends. Whatever he needed, they would provide for him. But Jim was injured, too, and they had passed over him, focusing on the more obvious need of his partner. Ellison's wounds were deeper, perhaps, some self-inflicted, all neglected and hastily patched so he could do what he needed to do to keep Sandburg alive. Whether motivated by guilt or by extreme need, or by some other passion or directive, Ellison was doing everything in his power to restore his guide, without regard to his own health or safety, without even knowing what he was doing.

When Sandburg was better, they would discuss it. Maybe Blair would have some answers, some explanation for the strange new connection between them. Something had happened when Sandburg came back to life, and something else had happened when Ellison was in the grotto in Mexico. Much as he'd like to ignore it, Simon knew he had to find out what that was. For now, though, he was left watching them, hoping-- praying-- that the situation wouldn't deteriorate and the sentinel wouldn't kill himself trying to save his guide.

Ellison needed Sandburg to live.

Sandburg needed Ellison, too. Maybe even to live.

And more importantly, right now they both needed him.

So...

Now what? No brilliant flashes of insight came to him.

"Is Jim okay?" Harvey Leek asked, drawing nearer. "He doesn't look well."

Banks lightly tapped the side of Ellison's face, feeling the cool, shocky skin. "Jim!" he whispered urgently. "Come on, snap out of it." How did they bring him out of it last time? For some reason, he couldn't remember. He looked up, meeting Nash Bridges' eyes. "I'm not sure exactly what to do," he admitted.

Bridges stood in the doorway, his mouth slightly open as though he were about to offer some advice, but the words got trapped in his throat somewhere. He ended up just shaking his head, his shoulders hitching in a brief shrug. "Don't look at me. He's your detective."

"Thanks," Banks muttered dryly and looked back to the sentinel and guide. At least he should be grateful that Harvey and Nash were calm; their eyes weren't damning him for his ignorance. "Any ideas?"

Nash glanced over to Harvey, then cleared his throat. "Well, uh, he's done this before, hasn't he?" Bridges said, finally, as though that solved everything. "At the hospital when Blair stopped breathing, and later that night in the motel room. Isn't this the same thing? Won't he just come out of it in a few minutes?"

How should I know? They haven't given me the damn manual. "I don't know."

Ellison continued to lie there, his chest scarcely rising, and Simon felt his irritation growing. "I'm sure he'll be fine. These things happen now and again with them," he muttered.

"He took some of Blair's pain," Harvey said softly, a fascinated smile on his face as he looked down at them.

Banks froze for a moment, still not comfortable with others knowing about the sentinel. But Jim trusted these people, and more importantly somehow, Blair trusted them. Over the last three years, Simon had learned to go along with Blair's gut feelings on these things. "Jim did something, but I'm not sure what he did," he conceded.

Harvey continued to watch them. "But he only erased the emotional pain, not the physical. I don't think he can physically remove his partner's pain. He can just ease the emotional hurt: the heartache, the desperation, the fear."

Banks turned as Harvey Leek spoke, facing him. "Do you actually know what's happening?" Banks asked, hope building suddenly. The offbeat SIU detective sounded so sure of himself.

Harvey shrugged. "I'm just guessing," he said quickly, brushing off his words.

"Sounds like a damned informed guess to me." Banks retrieved the washcloth and carefully wiped the sweat from Ellison's face.

Harvey crossed his arms and looked from Ellison to the Cascade police captain. "Jim's a sentinel, right? And he's found his partner, Blair-- which is amazing, when you consider it. In this day and age, the odds of him finding someone who knew what was happening with his senses would be phenomenal. I remember reading that some sentinels didn't find their partners and died young. In tribal life, where sentinels were acknowledged and revered, there would have been a search for a guide underway immediately when a new sentinel was discovered. I'm not sure what the criteria would have been then--"

Simon interrupted, with a well-practiced wave of dismissal. "So what's happening now?"

"Oh, right," Harvey nodded, as though he was as familiar as Blair with being redirected back to his main topic. "Anyway, Jim found Blair, which is cool, but I don't know how much they've... I hate to use the word 'bonded'. Sounds like something out of Star Trek, but I can't think of another name for it."

"Meshed?" Simon offered.

"Yeah, that's good. It's a symbiotic relationship, but it would take time to establish."

"So maybe this is just a new stage they're going through." Simon could see the color returning slowly to Jim's face.

"It's strange, though," Harvey mused, almost to himself, "I thought that usually this kind of thing goes from the partner to the sentinel. I suppose it could go both ways. It makes sense."

"What could go both ways?"

"Hmm? Oh. For lack of another term: empathic transfer." Harvey put his palms together carefully, then twisted them slightly so one hand clasped the other. "They sort of take on the other's emotions, or impart emotions to the other. Calm the other down, center the other, control the fear. It wasn't always there, from what I read, but sometimes it happened. The sentinel's partner needed to be able to keep him grounded, focused on what they were doing."

Nash cleared his throat, entering the conversation with an amazed, "Bubba, when the hell did you find time to research this stuff over the last few days?"

Harvey smiled. "Years and years ago, in college, actually. Part of my master's thesis."

"You did your thesis on sentinels?" Banks rubbed his forehead again, trying to hold back the growing headache. "Could you tell me why no one has heard of sentinels if the information is that available?"

"Well, that's the problem-- it's not that available. And my thesis wasn't on sentinels; they're just something I stumbled on while doing my research on another topic. I never even mentioned them in my paper-- I figured they were extinct. Didn't realize they were still around. Makes you wonder what other legends are true." Harvey reached out a gentle hand and rested his palm on Jim's forehead. "We need to keep him warm. He's shocky. I'm just guessing, but I'd say he went too far, and he doesn't know what he's doing. He could hurt himself, especially without his partner-- his guide-- to help him stabilize afterwards. Blair should be handling this, but he's so exhausted that unless Jim gets worse, I don't think we should wake him."

Banks quickly agreed. "Let Blair sleep for as long as he can."

"He needed to let go of some of his emotional pain," Harvey said, calmly.

They all stared at the two men for another minute. "Maybe we should move him to the other bed, let Jim stretch out properly," Nash suggested.

"No, give Jim more time. He needs the contact," Harvey answered, and Simon was once again impressed with the sureness in the other man's words.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, without any control, he needs his guide; Jim needs to know Blair is there and he's okay. That's probably the best medicine for Jim." Harvey paused, looking across to Simon as though something had just occurred to him. "Has Jim zoned at all in the last few days, since the long zone-out he had on Bainbridge Island?"

"A few times."

"More than usual?"

Simon shrugged. "He rarely zones now. He did at first, when it was all new to him, but he and Sandburg have worked out most of those bugs. It's been a long time since that's happened, several years since it was a problem for him. I'm sure the other evening was unusual."

"He was zoned for two and a half hours."

"When he used to zone, I'm sure it only happened for minutes, never hours."

Harvey nodded, as though it all made sense to him. "That long zone-out, then, could have been damaging for him."

"Is that what you think this is? Do you think he's zoning now?" Simon watched the two men, the two short breaths of Jim's to each of Blair's.

"No," Harvey said, scratching his head. "When I saw him zoned, he wasn't like this. I think he's on the edge of a zone, if I understand the concept correctly, but he's monitoring his partner, siphoning off the edge of pain. It would take a lot out of him, though."

"I thought you said Jim couldn't make him better."

"Not physically, not in that sense. But pain isn't just physical. It's emotional, psychological. Not just body, but soul and spirit."

"Do you think what he's done is dangerous to his health?" Simon shifted to cover them both with the blanket.

Harvey considered the idea carefully, as though pulling every scrap of information he had available and thoroughly processing it. He stood rock still, only his eyes blinking as he pondered the question.

Yes, a different version of Sandburg, Simon thought, though Blair's hands and expressive face would have been in rapid motion, his energy scarcely contained as he bounced from idea to idea.

"Has this happened before this weekend?" Harvey asked, finally. "This energy transference?"

"Not to my knowledge. Why?"

"I think Jim's letting what he's doing go too far. He probably doesn't know he's in danger doing this."

Banks met Harvey's mellow gaze, trying to decipher what exactly he had said. So, if Jim doesn't know, how do you know he's in danger? It was one thing for Blair to come up with this stuff-- after three years, Simon was becoming used to it. But there was something strange about Harvey's comments, so confident, yet obviously as off the cuff as Sandburg's usually were, operating from equally intuitive sources of information.

Come on, Sandburg. Help me out here. He desperately wanted to wake up Blair to confirm it all, but he also didn't want to disturb the kid yet. Not after listening to the heartrending sobs only a few minutes earlier.

Maybe Ellison had felt the same way, that these symptoms he was experiencing were worth it, if it brought his partner peace.

Movement behind him caught Simon's eye, and he turned to see Evan push himself upright. Nash moved to sit next to him, his arm resting lightly over the young man's shoulders. Dazed, half-awake, Evan stared at Jim and Blair, blinking to keep his focus. "What's wrong with Blair?" Evan asked softly.

"He's sleeping. How are you doing?" Nash asked, gently.

"I'm okay."

Harvey had whirled around at Evan's voice, his attention shifting as he returned to Evan's side. "I'm sorry-- I was so busy trying to figure this out, that I got distracted. How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay, Harv. How's Blair?"

"He'll be fine," Simon reassured him. They both will. "They're just resting," he added, looking back at them.

Nash joined him. "So are you just going to let them sleep?"

Simon shrugged. "What are my options? Maybe we should just get a motel room of our own and stay here for the night, instead of returning to Cascade. Neither Jim nor Blair are up to traveling." He leaned over, speaking directly into Ellison's ear, his voice low so as not to wake Sandburg. "Jim? Can you hear me?" He tried it again, several different ways, altering his voice tone, but there was no response.

"Doesn't look like he follows orders well," Bridges commented.

"Never has. There's always a first time, though." Banks offered a wry smile that turned into a grimace of frustration. "Dammit, Ellison." He rubbed his forehead, the tension headache firmly in place. Okay, now what? I'm out of ideas. I'm gonna rub the skin off my forehead if I keep this up. What do I do? Sit and wait for you to come out of it? What if you don't?

"May I try?" Harvey asked, returning to stand next to the bed.

Banks stared at the two men, then reached and brushed a curl from Sandburg's forehead and touched the back of his hand to Ellison's cool cheek. No change in either of them. "Sure. I don't know what else to do."

Harvey took Simon's place on the edge of the bed and rested one hand on the side of Ellison's face. "Jim. It's Harvey. Listen to me. Can you hear my voice?" To Banks' surprise, Ellison shifted his head slightly.

Bridges saw it, too. "Well, that's a start," the SIU captain said, moving closer.

Left alone, Evan shivered as he tried to stand up. "Harv? What are you doing? What's happening?"

"I might be able to reach him."

"Reach him? What are you talking about?" Evan wrapped his arms around himself, trying to contain his quaking knees, scarcely noticing as Nash sat him down again on the bed. "What are you talking about, Harvey? I don't understand."

Nash rested his arm around Evan's shoulders. "Just let him work, son. Harvey's voice seems to reach Ellison sometimes."

"What do you mean?" Cortez's dark eyes remained alarmed at what was going on. "What's happening?" he repeated, louder, a touch of anger in his voice. "What's Harvey doing there?"

Harvey looked back at him and smiled suddenly, disarming the agitation. "I promise I'll tell you later, okay? For now-- why don't you go with Nash into the other room?"

"Why?" Cortez shook his head stubbornly as Bridges helped him stand. "Why?"

"Later, Evan." Harvey's voice was final, allowing no further argument. "Just go with Nash, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Cortez said, reluctantly. "But you owe me a huge explanation on this one." He accepted Bridges' assistance into the adjoining room.

"Jim? You paying attention here?" Harvey asked, and Simon was once again amazed that Ellison's head moved, indicating he had at least heard, if not understood, Harvey's question.

"Jim, listen to my voice. Follow my voice. I know you can hear me. Blair's okay now. He's sleeping. You need to let him go for a while. You're not ready for this yet. You're moving too fast. I know you want to help him, but you've got to let him go through this naturally. You can't take this away from him."

Ellison's hold tightened on his partner, but Harvey continued, undaunted.

"I'm giving you a choice here, man. Either you open your eyes now and come out of this, or I'm going to have to move Blair to the next room. He won't be far away, and he'll be fine there, we'll keep close watch on him, but I need you to pay attention for a few minutes and you can't do that with Blair here."

Banks took another good look at his two friends, noting the firm grasp Ellison had on his partner. "I don't understand, Harvey," he asked softly, although Jim could probably hear him just as easily as if he'd shouted it. "Why do you want to move Sandburg?"

"Because I think Jim's 'locked' on him. To bring him out of it, we have to get him to look for Blair. Nash told me that when you first found Blair and took him to the hospital, he stopped breathing and Jim revived him. The doctor removed him from Jim's grasp and that left Jim able to focus. He recovered within ten or fifteen minutes."

"Right."

"Well, I'm going to do the same thing here." Harvey pried the sentinel's fingers from around Sandburg's shoulders. "Help me."

It took both of them to free Blair, then carry him to the bed in the other room, where Nash and Evan covered the still-sleeping man in blankets.

"Now what?" Banks asked, when they returned to Jim's side. Ellison's hand was stretched out, hovering over where Blair had been, as though some trace of aura still existed there. Hell, maybe it did.

"Now we get his attention." Harvey closed his eyes, then reopened them. He grinned at Simon suddenly. "I have an idea-- straight out of Star Trek, too." He then gently, but firmly, slapped Ellison across the face.

Sandburg woke, disoriented. "What?" he murmured to the two anxious faces hovering over him. Jim?

"Blair?"

Evan and Nash. Not Jim. He blinked, trying to focus, looking around the room, then up at Cortez. "Evan? Evan, what's wrong? What's happened?" he asked, sitting up partway. He was back in the other motel room. Nash's room. "Where's Jim?"

He tried to get up, but Nash stopped him. "Just take it easy, Blair." Bridges sat down beside him, easing his shoulders back to the mattress.

His leg hurt. A lot. But the rest of him felt okay, considering. I just want to be back with Jim. I was with Jim, and now I'm not.

"Jim? Where's Jim? He's not here. Where--?" The words tumbled from Blair's mouth, slurred because he was only half-awake.

"He's just in the next room," Nash said.

"Why? I was with him. Why am I in here?" Blair struggled again to sit up. "Is something wrong with him?" I knew it. Something's wrong.

"He's just resting--"

"No!" Blair whispered. "It's something else. Where is he? How long was I asleep?"

"You were asleep an hour, you woke up for a short time, then you've been back asleep maybe ten or fifteen minutes."

That didn't make any sense. He felt like he'd been sleeping for hours. "Where's Jim?" he demanded.

"He's resting," Nash said firmly. "How are you feeling?"

"What?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Just a little freaked. "Why won't you let me see Jim?"

"We're not keeping you apart, Blair, we're--"

Evan interrupted Nash. "You are, though. That's what you're doing, Nash. You're keeping them apart."

Nash sighed, his thumb and forefinger squeezing the bridge of his nose. "Okay, we are. But it's just so Jim will wake up."

"He's zoned?" Blair whispered.

"Harvey thinks he's in some other mode-- I don't know all the terms for this."

"Oh, God." Blair pushed himself up this time, swinging his legs to rest on the floor. "Let me get back to him."

"Just give him a few minutes, son," Nash said, blocking him. "Harvey's just trying to see if--"

"Harvey's not his guide!" Blair said harshly, struggling to his feet. "I am!" Standing was not such a great idea, though, sending stabs of pain up his leg, his sight disappearing in black spots.

"Chief?" Ellison appeared in the doorway, clutching the door frame. "Chief? You okay?"

"Jim?" Yeah, I am now. Sandburg dropped back to the edge of the bed, waited for the dizziness to pass, then his eyes fixed on his partner's face. "Yeah, I'm okay. You?" You look like hell.

"I'm fine." Ellison ignored the snort from behind him.

"So..." Blair looked around, glancing to Simon and Harvey when they moved past Jim into the room. "Anyone want to tell me what's going on here?"

"Hungry?" Harvey asked, hopefully, ignoring the question. He helped Evan off the bed, and resettled him on the couch. "We still have dinner reservations at the Chinese restaurant across the street. Half an hour. That just gives us time to wash up and head over there."

"You're hungry?" Simon asked, looking at Harvey, surprised.

"He's always hungry," Evan muttered.

"Look who's talking, Cortez," Harvey threw back at him. "Can you handle dinner?"

Blair watched the looks traded between the two, then met Jim's eyes again. So no one wants to tell me what's going on. And you either know and don't want to talk about it, or you're just as in the dark as I am. I know something happened. And that would be...

Nothing came to mind, but Jim looked a few shades too pale-- although standing next to Simon, Jim always looked pale. Maybe Simon was pale, too, but Blair hadn't figured a good way to tell yet. He went more by Simon's expression than the shade of his skin.

Jim looked at him for a moment, his head to one side, and Blair sighed. Listening to the old ticker, aren't you?

Jim nodded then to himself, and turned back to the other room. "Dinner sounds good. I'm going to put my shoes on." They could hear the door to the bathroom closing and water running.

Blair stared down at his cast, noting for the first time that it was more of a brace than a cast. "Can I walk on this?" he asked.

"The doctor said you could in a day or two. You're supposed to be keeping off it until then." Simon pointed to where the crutches rested by the door.

"Any objections if I go in there with Jim?"

"Give him a few minutes to freshen up, Sandburg." Simon also looked extremely tired, Blair noted. Not adding up to a lot of good news.

"Evan?" Nash crouched in front of Cortez. "You up to going with us?"

"Yes." Evan shifted slightly to make room for Harvey beside him on the couch. "I might not eat much, but I want to be there. And I want my explanation."

"And I'll tell you all about it. Now's just not the best time," Harvey said, softly, resting his arm behind Cortez on the back of the couch.

"Why not?"

"Because it's something we've got to keep confidential."

"From whom?"

"From everyone else who's not in this room."

"Including Joe?" Evan asked, looking at Nash skeptically.

"Let me worry about Joe," Nash said, smiling. "Everything's okay. If you're hungry, you just get your butt off that couch and get your shoes and jacket on."

"Then where's my gun, if we're going out? If I'm okay, I want my gun."

"When you can walk a straight line without listing at an angle, then we'll talk about your gun, mister."

"I'm walking lopsided because I'm used to wearing a gun. My weight is thrown off."

"Riiiiight, Bubba."

Sandburg smiled at their banter. He knew how Evan felt. He wanted everything to be the same. The way it was before. He wanted to go home. He looked to Simon, then pointedly in Jim's direction, and back again.

"I'll go see how he's doing," Simon said, going into the other room.

Blair watched him go, then caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror over the low dresser. Red-rimmed eyes. Blotchy face. Hair squashed on one side, wildly tangled on the other. Pathetic, Sandburg.

But I feel okay. He really did, even though he remembered crying now. And that Jim had held him. And that Simon and Nash and Evan and Harvey had been there, too. I don't have enough energy to be embarrassed about that. No one else seemed to be uncomfortable about it, so why bother?

Besides, the energy in the room wasn't even focused on him; it was focused on Jim. Something was wrong with Jim. Something they had seen when he was crying and Jim was with him.

He stared at the doorway to the other room, wondering what it was. What had happened during that brief time while he was asleep? Jim had been like this major rock through the entire thing. He couldn't imagine something happening to Jim.

I'm tired. Still.

Harvey was looking at him. He met the man's eyes, seeing the concern there. Not concern for himself, but Blair could see the concern there, anyway. So it's for Jim. Is he okay?

Harvey smiled at him, then leaned over and mussed up Evan's hair, turning his attention back to his own partner. It was strange meeting someone who had Guide stamped in big letters across his forehead. Maybe somewhere there was a sentinel needing Harvey. Blair watched the two men joking around, and he couldn't help but laugh with them and enjoy the way Harvey brought a smile to Evan's face. It was almost as though they were meant to be together.

Maybe they were, he realized. Maybe...

What if he had met Jim before the man's senses had kicked back in? Would they have still become friends? Probably not. The thought made him feel sad at what he would have missed.

Maybe Evan was a sentinel? Would Jim know? On Highlander they always knew a pre-immortal. Do sentinels know another person is a sentinel, even if their senses aren't online yet? Jim knew about Alex before he even met her, because her animal spirit was in his territory, but Jim didn't seem to be weird about Evan.

But Seattle wasn't Evan's territory or Jim's. That might make a difference.

So did Harvey know? Or suspect? Or wonder?

He wanted to ask, but Harvey was right. This wasn't the time.

And right now, the only concrete thoughts he could come up with were: I want Jim to be okay. I want to go home. I don't want Chinese food. I want Jim to be okay, and I want to go home.

Simon came back into the room with his jacket on, his small suitcase tucked under his arm. "Come on, let's get going. I'm going to put my stuff in the truck. Need help, Sandburg?"

"I'm okay," he said. "Jim will help me."

"He's just packing the duffel bag." Simon paused, glancing back at the empty doorway. "You sure you don't need anything?"

"I'm sure." Blair eased himself from the bed, staring down at his foot. "Oh, there is one thing, Simon. Why is my cast pink?"

"Uh, better talk to Jim about that," Simon said, quickly heading out to the parking lot, followed by the others.

"Oh. Okay." Blair stared at it again, frowning, then he looked up sharply. "Jim had something to with this? What does that mean? Jim requested this color?"

The man in question came into the room carrying the duffel bag, and Blair forgot his complaint. Jim looked awful, like he was only holding himself together with sheer willpower.

"Let's get you cleaned up, Chief. I'm not taking you out in public looking like that." Jim helped him hop toward the bathroom.

"Jim? Everything okay?" Blair whispered, as he leaned back against the sink counter.

Jim smiled and took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Yeah, Chief. It will be. Once we get home."

"Yeah." Blair leaned over and washed his face, then dried his hands by running his damp fingers through his hair, trying to tame the frizzy curls. He added more water to his hands, and worked at it for a minute, meeting Jim's eyes again in the reflection. Jim looked weary and a little... haunted, but the detective smiled when he realized he was being studied.

"I wasn't a few minutes ago, but I think I'm hungry now."

"That's good." Blair nodded, pushing away from the counter to stand next to the sentinel. "Let's go."

Let's go home.

Home. That's what they both wanted. How many nights had he slept at home since that day when Jim had evicted him from the loft? Three nights when he got out of the hospital. Two nights when they got back from Mexico. Five nights out of a month. His things were still in boxes. It didn't look much like home.

It felt like home, though.

"Dinner, then we hit the road." Ellison handed him his crutches.

"Okay," Sandburg agreed. "You gonna tell me what's wrong?"

Ellison shrugged. "Not sure what it is. I feel fine now."

"So do I. Well, except for the foot and stuff. We okay though?"

Ellison wrapped his arms around him, standing for a long moment, head down, his forehead resting on Blair's shoulder. He didn't raise his head until Simon's voice echoed through from the other room, asking if they needed help. "We're fine here, Simon. We'll meet you across the street at the restaurant." Ellison looked down at him. "We'll figure it out, Chief."

Blair sighed as he made his way out of the motel room. Yeah, we're okay. It's the rest of the world that sucks.

The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand,
nor the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship;
it is the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when he discovers that
someone else believes in him and is willing to trust him.
--Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Pass the rice, please."

"One shot through the neck. It hit an--"

"Here. Anyone else want the prawns? I'll half what's left with you--"

"Forensics wasn't sure. The amount of blood at the site was significant though, and--"

"You only want rice? How about something else? Do you want more soup?"

"Near as we could figure, there are at least four men from the Bainbridge area who are missing--"

"How about more of the lemon chicken?"

"The FBI recovered a considerable arsenal of weapons--"

"They cleared probably close to half a million dollars on the--"

The conversations faded out... not that Blair Sandburg had been attempting to follow them.

He looked across the table at Evan, who was also poking at his rice with his chopsticks. Evan raised his head, his hooded eyes meeting Blair's, his face asking the same questions. Had it happened? All of it? Had the things so carefully not being discussed at the table really happened to them?

It didn't seem real. Except for the aches and pains, the physical reminders, the faint smell of medication-- what had happened to them seemed like nothing more than a bad movie. A "B" flick, not worth staying up at night for. A book with an improbable plot.

The nights and days they were held at the warehouse were blurred by drugs and pain, peaks of terror amid the gray clouds, shrouded images, flickering. He remembered huddling with Evan in the darkness of the storage room, waiting, hearing the laughter and the curses beyond the thin door. They had talked about everything else, anything else, refusing to speculate on what their wounds added up to, because the final tabulation would be too much to handle alone.

But it was over, they knew they were safe now, and they knew it had happened to them. They bore the scars, if not the complete memories. However, knowing they were safe and feeling they were safe, were two separate things.

Blair's hand tightened on his chopsticks, trying to breathe around the sudden tightness in his chest. He smiled, though, when Jim's arm brushed against his, the sentinel's casual touch, under cover of asking him if he wanted more rice, a blessed reminder of who he was, and who he was with. He was with Jim. He was where he was supposed to be.

Jim had been amazing the last few days, quietly offering encouragement, verbally and physically and emotionally, despite Jim's own weariness, despite his uncharacteristic clumsiness at the table, knocking over his first glass of tea, and despite the pain that clouded the sentinel's eyes every time Blair had a mini panic attack. Jim reached over now, tousling his hair, needing to touch him, and Blair smiled reassuringly.

That morning, in the hospital before they were released, he and Evan had decided they wanted to go to a Chinese restaurant that night. Okay, maybe it wasn't the best decision, but it had been so important at that moment, to do something normal, to be in public, not hidden away. There had been much debate over the wisdom of this, the other four men wanting to order in rather than leave the relative safety of the motel room, to keep them protected, to shelter them-- but from what? This normalcy was what he and Evan craved. Maybe not pretending that their capture and abuse had never happened, but at least acknowledging to themselves that life could and would go on. Sharing a meal with friends in a restaurant was the simplest of pleasures-- so what if neither man could eat more than a spoonful of food? It wasn't about eating. It was the socializing, the affirmation of friendship, that mattered.

More than that, Blair knew he needed to see Evan interacting in the world with Nash and Harvey, to know that Evan would be okay. And he saw Evan looking at Jim and Simon, sizing them up, reassuring himself that Blair was also in good hands.

I'm not alone. I know that. Blair glanced back to Jim, basking in the man's quick smile tossed his way.

"You're not eating much for someone who insisted we go out for dinner. You doing okay?" Jim asked, reaching for another egg roll, dripping in grease.

"You look like you're enjoying the food. Maybe we can take the rest of this home. I'll probably be hungrier tomorrow. We could have it for dinner."

"Is that what you want?"

Blair met his eyes, reading the concern. "I want to be stretched out on the couch at home, wrapped in the afghan, listening to some quiet music on the stereo." With you. At home. Alone.

Jim heard the words he didn't say aloud. There was a tenderness in his friend's eyes that was sometimes hidden by the cool exterior of the cop or the mixed emotions of the sentinel, but as Blair looked at him now, he felt like he could see to the depths of Jim's soul.

I'm not alone. What incredibly wonderful words.

Blair looked across the table to Evan again, taking in the dark smudges under the young man's eyes, the weariness of his expression, the uncomfortable way he sat on the chair, and wondered if he looked as bad as Evan did. As he watched, Harvey poked Evan gently, nudging him to eat something more. Blair smiled, recognizing that particular manifestation of caring. Yes, someone was going to be watching out for Evan.

Simon captured the end of Blair's plate and pulled it slightly toward his own, dishing out some of the bok choi, then sliding the plate back in front of him. "Eat up. It's good stuff."

"Thanks," he murmured, his chopsticks stabbing the green vegetable, debating whether he should attempt to swallow it or not. For Simon's sake, he tried to eat the food dished out for him, but his stomach wasn't too happy about the prospect. Still, it was worth the effort. "Thanks, Simon," he whispered, tilting his head to smile at the captain.

"No problem. Just eat it," Simon ordered gruffly, but the gentle bullying was so wonderfully normal that Blair's smile widened. Simon had been a solid presence at his side ever since he had been rescued, supporting Blair and perhaps more importantly, supporting Jim as the sentinel cared for him.

Blair closed his eyes, reveling for a moment in the overwhelming sensation of being cared for. Or was it simply the knowledge of being valued that had healed his soul? Whatever it was, he wasn't ready to analyze it, which only proved to him how tired he really was. And Jim, too, was no longer making an effort to be a part of the conversation that was largely carried by Nash, Harvey, and Simon.

Blair turned his attention toward his rice, trying to eat a few more mouthfuls. His chopsticks felt awkward in his hand, and he tried switching them to his left hand, which sometimes worked when he overused his right hand on the computer. But something else wasn't right. He felt offbalanced, like he was going to topple off his chair.

When he glanced to his partner, he groaned silently as the slightly unfocused look appeared on Jim's face. Yet another zone-out, the third in the last hour. Harvey laughingly called the last one a "brown-out", commenting that Jim's power source was stressed to the limit and he was simply conserving energy. At least no one at the table seemed to be upset about it; the San Francisco detectives were probably just assuming this was a normal occurrence for a sentinel.

Come on, Jim. Please don't do this. Stay with me, just until we get home. I'm not sure what's wrong here, but just stay with me, okay?

Simon laid a hand on Blair's left arm. "Anything I can do?"

"No. Thanks, Simon. We'll be okay." Blair closed his eyes and centered himself, holding tight to the shaky platform of his emotions. I need to do this on my own. I need to. He needs to know I'm okay. Blair's heart started beating faster, and he put his hand over his chest as though trying to quell the frantic thumping. Jim's fine, he told himself. He's just worn out. The events of the last ten days were just overwhelming sometimes-- devastating to Jim, who had been forced to watch from the sidelines when Blair allowed himself to be captured, in an attempt to rescue Evan and the others. "I do appreciate your concern, Jim. I'm okay. I'll be okay," he whispered softly, his words keyed to Jim's sensitive ears. "I know it's been a crappy few months, and things have not exactly been going smoothly. I suppose it's a wonder you can let me out of your sight."

It hadn't all been bad, though. There had been some wonderful moments, too... After what happened at the fountain at Rainier, when he had first got out of the hospital and he hadn't been seeing properly, there had been an amazing closeness between them. Then he had come back from that precious time in Mexico ready to soar again, to take on the world. Instead, he had crashed into the hard unforgiving earth. Crashed hard.

And walked away from it. Pieces of the wreckage still clung to him, he was burned by the fire, but he had walked away from it, alive.

Blair leaned to his right, resting the side of his head on Jim's unmoving shoulder. "Jim?" he called softly, his hand lightly covering the sentinel's clenched grip on the chopsticks. "Hey, Jim..."

Conscious thought had slipped away, time was blurred, his tongue and palate tingling with sensations. Sweetness. Saltiness. Sourness. Bitterness. Combining and separating. Nothing was clear. Time was illusive.

What was that? A noise. A voice.

He heard it, calling him from the depths of the verdant jungle toward...something.

A whisper below his hearing range, teasing his mind. What was that?

His mouth opened slightly, feeling the air sweep across his tongue and throat as he inhaled, the slightly warmer breath of air as he exhaled. There had been a taste that had demanded his attention... but that had faded now into the ordinary, gone with the exhaled air from his lungs. He swallowed and sniffed the air, catching the familiar scent.

A hushed voice pierced his empty thoughts, too distant, too low for him to make out the words, but he knew the speaker was Sandburg. He felt triumphant at his discovery and turned from where he was drifting and fastened on the faraway speaker. Nothing. No further sounds, except those of the jungle. He turned again and listened, intently this time.

"Jim?"

He heard it now, soft and whispered, yet clear and ringing, demanding his complete attention.

"Hey, Jim. Come back, okay?"

And he did, the full blast of sounds returning in the wake of his guide's soft words. With taste had come sound, and with sound came touch: his guide's hand on his, the table beneath his forearms, the chopsticks in his hand. The slight rhythmatic breeze from the overhead fans in the restaurant. He realized suddenly that his eyes were open.

A blink, he could see, and the sentinel was back completely-- taste, scent, hearing, touch, and sight. All demanding his attention, feeding him too much information--

"Dial it back," Sandburg breathed.

Such a familiar suggestion, but one he could do, and the pressure in his temples lessened. His mouth felt numb.

Taste. He had zoned on taste.

"...file the report by Friday. Will Howard have statements prepared for us to issue to the media?" Simon Banks was mid conversation, his voice slightly strained as though his casual words were forced.

"Should be ready later this evening. He said he's faxing it directly to the SIU office in San Francisco," Nash Bridges said, his hand wrapped around a cup of green tea, the gentle scent pungent in the air, now that Ellison had picked it out.

"Great. I can imagine what's waiting for us when we get back," Banks groaned. "The media coverage worked for us when we needed it to flush out Jurgen's group, and now I suspect it will work against us for the next week or two." Simon looked directly at him then and smiled reassuringly. "Glad you're back," he said, his hand casually covering his mouth, his words only loud enough for Jim's ears. "We're leaving as soon as you have time to recover."

Ellison nodded at the firm directive, glanced toward his partner, then looked around the table, but no one other than Sandburg and Simon were paying attention to his lapse. Lapses. Ellison sighed heavily, the air escaping from his nostrils like a pissed-off cat. He hated the thought that he had zoned, and two of those times he had faded out from focusing on the black bean sauce. It wasn't that remarkable. Right now he couldn't concentrate on what was being said at his table and still block out the forty other conversations happening simultaneously around him.

"You okay?"

He turned at Sandburg's quiet question. "Yeah," he whispered back, shrugging. "Sorry."

"What's wrong?"

He couldn't tell him, not in a crowded restaurant. He needed to be home. He needed to have Sandburg at home, safe. Contained. I feel like I'm not quite here, Chief. I'm somewhere else. With you, though, but somewhere other than here. He found a smile and offered it as gift to his guide. He could feel Sandburg's slightly elevated pulse vibrating along the hand that rested now on his forearm, the gentle warmth in his touch a welcome reminder of life. Ellison released his chopsticks, watching idly as they dropped, clattering on the table surface.

"Jim?" Sandburg seemed startled at the sound and moved his hand, touching Ellison's chopsticks fleetingly as if to pick them up, then he ended up sitting, slightly hunched, his hands covering his face. Ellison shifted to his left, draping one arm along the back of Sandburg's chair, his fingertips lightly touching his guide's back, immediately picking up the tremors that the young man was trying to hide. The hammering heartbeat. The catch in his breathing.

No. Come on, Chief. Don't...

Sandburg looked up at him, reddened eyes pooling with unshed tears, trying so damn hard to hold it all together.

It wasn't fair. Ellison grit his teeth, his hand moving upward to rest on his partner's shoulder. You should be safe now. He closed his eyes, reaching... feeling... something... touch his guide's spirit. Embrace his heart.

Sandburg gasped, his face once again hidden in his hands. But his frantic breathing slowed down, the tremors died. With a ragged sigh, Sandburg sat up straighter, squaring his shoulders, and looked over at him, this time with a gentle smile smoothing the tension on his face, but there was also a look of puzzled astonishment in his eyes.

Ellison smiled broadly, his emotions soaring past the building headache. He felt great, energized. He settled again in his chair, reaching for the green tea, his fingers wrapping around the warm glass. Then it all caught up to him, and for a moment, he thought he was going to keel right over as a wave of dizziness threatened him. He waited it out, relieved he wasn't expected to participate in the conversation around him. Simon was doing a great job of keeping appearances normal. After a few minutes, he heard Sandburg politely ask a question of the group, but Ellison could hold onto neither the question nor the answer. There was a comfort, though, in hearing that voice participating in an ordinary conversation, regardless of what was said. Sandburg liked these people. Sandburg wanted to eat out, and then go home. And it was time to go home now.

Right on cue, Banks looked at his watch. "We need to get going. We have a long ride left tonight and Sandburg here looks ready to drop."

And Ellison looks like he's zoning again, Jim thought ruefully. Thanks for not pointing out the obvious, Simon.

"I've been meaning to ask, how far is it from Seattle to Cascade?" Nash pushed his empty plate aside and rested his arm along the back of Evan Cortez's chair. The young detective sat between Nash and Harvey, just as Sandburg was safely seated between Simon and him.

Possessive lot, aren't we? Then, maybe we have good reason.

"Cascade is less than two hours, at speed limit. Half that if you drive like Jim," Sandburg said, grinning across the table. Evan Cortez looked up and smiled, as though they were sharing a joke.

"It's about an hour and a half, when I drive," Banks said, fishing out his wallet. "Which I'm going to. Ellison, you look like you need a nice long nap."

"I'm fine, sir--" he tried, but his voice was rough, and he gave up.

"Uh, Jim, let him drive, okay?" Sandburg said, softly, not meeting his eyes.

"No choice. Ah has spoken," Banks added, leaning forward and giving Ellison a firm look. "I'm going to go pay our bill at the front, then I'll bring the truck around."

Ellison nodded, rubbing his forehead. "Thanks, sir." Truth be told, he didn't want to drive.

"Jim?" So quietly spoken. So many questions in that one word.

He nodded again, his hand moving to rest on the back of Sandburg's chair. If they weren't in a damned restaurant, he would have wrapped his arms around his guide, just to reassure him that everything was okay. "Just tired, Chief. Nothing to worry about." He was tired. Maybe that's all it was. He hadn't slept properly since Sandburg had disappeared. He was simply tired. Ellison pushed back his plate and reached for the water glass.

"Pardon me for finding all this weirdly fascinating, but I'd love to talk to you more about this sometime, Blair," Harvey said, quietly, leaning forward.

"Maybe you could let me know your sources, as well. I'm always looking for any mention of... them," Sandburg finished, with a small smile.

"I'll dig out my notes. These... episodes... are wild stuff. How often does he have them?"

His guide shook his head slightly. ""Not much now. It's like he said, he's just tired."

Harvey sat back and regarded the sentinel. "So, under normal circumstances, he would be okay?"

"That's hard to say. He's--"

"I'm right here," Ellison interrupted, setting the empty glass firmly back on the table. "I can hear, you know? Don't talk around me."

"Sorry," both men responded.

"Sorry, Jim," Sandburg repeated, looking weary.

Shit. What's wrong with me? "Chief?" Ellison's hand moved from the chair back to rest on the young man's shoulder, relieved when Sandburg shifted toward the touch. "It's okay; I was just teasing. Well, not teasing, but go ahead and talk to him. I shouldn't have said anything-- Answer the man's question, if it's helpful. He deserves some answers after everything that happened."

"No, now's not the right time," Harvey said quickly. "I've been too intrusive already."

"Another time, for sure. There aren't many people I can talk to about this." Sandburg yawned, covering his mouth at the last minute, the white gauze bandages around his wrists showing beneath his shirt sleeves.

Harvey looked at Evan next to him, who was listing slightly in his chair. "How are you doing?"

"Okay," Cortez said, softly. "I'd like to lie down though." He had eaten a small bowl of rice and had some of the won ton soup, but the rest of the meal had largely been untouched.

Ellison glanced to Sandburg's plate and knew his guide hadn't eaten much more than that. The drugs they were both taking left them tired and not hungry. Sandburg should be lying down as well, not preparing for a trip to Cascade. Had they really discussed it, or was he just assuming that the kid would be as eager as he was to get back home? "Chief? Do you want to wait another night? Maybe--"

"I want to go home," Sandburg said quickly. "Really. Please."

Banks came back to the table before any further conversation could take place. He shook hands with Bridges, then moved on to say his goodbyes to Cortez and Leek. "It's been nice meeting you gentlemen. I wish the circumstances were different, but I thank you all for your help. And you, Evan, I'm sure the entire Cascade PD would like me to thank you for your care and assistance to Blair while you were both captured. It means a lot to me personally."

"Me, too," Sandburg whispered, a tear running down his face.

Evan nodded, but couldn't seem to find any words.

Harvey stood up, his eyes fixed on Sandburg. "And what you did for Evan, Blair, was so brave that I'm not sure whether to hug you or suggest you be locked up somewhere for acting crazy."

"A hug would be fine," Sandburg said with a soft smile, shifting back in his chair as Harvey came around the table to embrace him. "We'll talk one day, I promise," Ellison heard Sandburg whisper to the older man. "But for now, I think your partner needs you."

"First things first, right?" Harvey gave Blair one last squeeze, touched Ellison's arm lightly, then returned to stand behind Evan's chair. "Ready to go?"

Evan shrugged, reluctantly allowing Harvey to help him to his feet. His dark eyes shifted to Sandburg, wordlessly staring at him, then he leaned forward across the table, his hand extended. "Take care of yourself."

"I will." Sandburg shook his hand formally. "Call me if you want to. Or email me."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." Cortez turned away on his own and walked slowly to the door, Harvey Leek trailing behind him.

Nash watched them go, then sighed, shaking his head. "He's beginning to hurt. Best get him lying down soon." Nash circled around the table to where Sandburg sat and placed his hand gently on his shoulder. "I know you have these two guys looking out for you, but if they ever give you any trouble, you give me a call, okay?"

"Okay," Sandburg agreed, smiling. "But I'll be fine. I'm going home."

"Good." Nash squeezed his shoulder, then shook hands with Ellison. "And you take care, as well."

"Thank you." Ellison smiled briefly, then watched as Banks and Bridges walked to the front door, leaving the sentinel and guide alone. Tired again, he idly followed their casual conversation, then another sound caught his attention. Somewhere in the restaurant, a group was singing 'Happy Birthday'. Ellison looked around but couldn't see them. He listened again, concentrating this time, finally isolating the music to another location. Probably the restaurant at the other end of the block. He had just picked up the familiar tune.

But why am I hearing it at all?

He heard his Ford truck start up in the parking lot across the street.

Talking... a board meeting somewhere. Stocks and market trends. And when he listened, the sound of felt pen squeaking on white board.

He could hear the drone of an airplane. And when he focused on it, he heard the pilots speaking.

He tugged, pulling his hearing in. Another sound, a whirrrrr. It took him a moment to pinpoint the noise-- the fan on the computer at the cash register. Zeroing in on it, he could also hear the sound of dust blowing around loose inside the frame.

Why? Why do I hear these things and not other things?

Then, as if someone had flicked a light switch, he only heard the normal sounds of the restaurant, his hearing dissolving back to a regular range. His head pounded. He could feel the weight of Blair's hand on his forearm, the heat transferring through his shirt sleeve, the gentle tug of each hair on his back of his arm. Ellison finished his tea and put the glass down, studying the small ring it made on the table top. "I'll do my best, Chief. It might not be good enough." He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"What do you mean?" Sandburg whispered.

His finger passed through the water residue on the table's surface, smearing it. "Six weeks ago we thought we had a rough idea of my range with these senses. Four weeks ago, you died, and I was truly alone. I thought I needed to be alone before that, but when you were gone, I understood, to my complete horror, what it meant to be alone. It was unthinkable."

He took a ragged breath, letting the air escape slowly as he found his words. "Three weeks ago, lying it that grotto with my senses enhanced by the drug Alex gave me, I could hear the distinct sound, not only of your heart beating, but of the blood rushing through your veins. I heard the ticking of your pocket watch, the way you were gasping for breath." He picked up the empty glass, his fingers tracing the moisture on the side, the ridges of his own finger prints. "One week ago, the night you were kidnaped, I heard you, when it was impossible for even me to do so. I felt your fear. I knew when you fell asleep...But now things are back to normal, and I'm not sure what normal means anymore. I'm not sure what normal is. My range is fading."

"Jim, are your senses--"

He knew the question before Sandburg finished voicing it. "They're working. No less than they ever were, but not as great as those first days in Mexico. The range is erratic. I can't count on them. You can't count on me."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't control these--"

"Control? When have you ever had complete control? That's what I'm here for. It's never going to happen alone." Sandburg held up his hand, palm out, and waited.

"I know. I know it won't work alone." He could see the individual cells in his partner's hand.

"Then what's your problem, Jim?"

He thought about it, about his insecurities, his inadequacies. His strengths. "What do you want, Chief?"

"I want to go home. Now."

Ellison matched his palm to Sandburg's. When he added a slight bit of pressure, his guide matched it, the middle of their palms touching. My soul to yours. "You sure you want to do this?" Ellison asked, dropping his hand to reach back for his jacket. "It'll be an uncomfortable ride for you."

"I want to go home," Sandburg repeated, looking up at him, eyes tired and wide with need. "I'm willing to put up with being a bit uncomfortable. I want to go home. I want things to be the way they were before."

Home.

It sounded like a distant tease of words.

Home. Normal. What is normal, anyway? Normal for us-- or normal for most people?

He steadied Sandburg as they got to their feet, the younger man awkwardly moving on his crutches. They walked toward the door, his arm draped around Blair's shoulders, trying to recapture that feeling of closeness that had too often threatened to flicker like a dying candle between them.

Home. I kicked you out of your home. I destroyed our home.

"I want to go home," Sandburg whispered, his voice quiet and low, as if he knew what Ellison was thinking.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because it is where I belong."

Ellison nodded, ignoring the pain of his pounding headache, feeling bitterness and joy tangling in his heart as they walked out into the evening sunshine. "Even if I'm there?"

"Because you are there."

He looked down at Sandburg, standing quietly on the sidewalk, his face still showing his own pain. The response had been so quick.

So desperate.

It reverberated through Ellison's body, leaving his limbs weak. It was too much.

It was everything. It was overwhelming. It was right.

It was too much, the weight pressing against him, yet it was everything his spirit hoped for.

It was overwhelming him, emotions tugged from the corners where he had stashed them, but it was right. Wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

No. Maybe it wasn't.

He took a deep breath, letting it escape from his lungs slowly as he considered the nature of the response. They had become too close, and that was dangerous. Someone else might try to hurt him. I might hurt him. Again.

He laughed out loud at the absurdity of life, of standing on the sidewalk in Seattle outside the Chinese restaurant where his guide had brought him back from a zone-out three times. His guide. The person who meant more to him than any other living human.

Sandburg, if you're so special, why do you have a sign on your forehead that says 'abuse me'? Why do I persist in treating you like shit? Why did Lash kidnap you and try to absorb you? Why did Crawford kidnap you and experiment on you until you were crying like a child? Why did Alex Barnes almost succeed in killing you? Why did Jurgen rape you?

What the hell is going to happen next? How else can I hurt you? What more can I possibly do?

He knew his laughter was frightening his partner, but it took him a moment to get it under control so it wouldn't spiral away from him into anger. He turned away, watching the road, the traffic.

"What's so funny?" Sandburg asked quietly, behind him.

"Life," he said, as his truck pulled up, Simon behind the wheel. "My fucking life."

"Jim, I don't have to go back to the loft if you don't want me--"

"Sandburg--" He cut him off, then paused, wanting to explain himself, but finding no words that came easy. He settled for brutal honesty. "Chief, I, being the greedy bastard that I am, want you back in the loft. End of story. Let's go home." He opened the Ford truck's passenger door, his hands moving to take the crutches and toss them in the back, then going to Sandburg's waist, ready to boost him onto the seat.

"Why do you want me at the loft?" His guide's voice was cool, distant, resisting his touch.

He didn't answer at first, but helped Sandburg up into the cab of the truck anyway. Before he let him slide over to the middle, Ellison's grip tightened on his arm, keeping the younger man in place by the door. He leaned over, his words for his guide's ear only. "Blair, it's your home, too. It always has been. God as my judge, I'm no prize. Your 'Holy Grail' is tarnished and dented and a complete fuck up, but, God as my witness, that loft, that life, is yours as much as it is mine. Probably a lot more."

"Intellectually you want me there, but what about--"

"You are in my heart. I want you there." He pushed Sandburg over toward Simon, then crawled in after him, slamming the door behind him with far more force than was necessary.

Simon watched them from the corner of his eye, wondering what had happened now. He drove through the streets, winding his way to the freeway, the silence in the truck growing.

It wasn't anger between them, he decided, pulling onto the main road that would take them to the I-5. Both men looked lost. Blair swiped his sleeve across his eyes, as though wiping back tears that wouldn't come. Jim closed his eyes finally, resting his head against the window, brow furled in readable pain.

"Let me know if I should stop at all-- if you need a break or anything."

"Thanks, Simon. I'm okay." Blair smiled quickly at him, barely meeting his eyes.

Jim nodded, showing, at least, that he was listening.

Okay, maybe not anger, but there was a tension that was obvious, although Simon still couldn't pinpoint its cause. "Everything okay here?" he ventured.

"We're fine," Jim answered, not opening his eyes, and it was Blair's turn to nod mutely in agreement.

A few minutes later, Blair was asleep, and Jim, half asleep himself, shifted sideways to let his partner's head recline against his shoulder. Jim's head tilted the other way, away from the window, to rest on top of Blair's, comfortable with the closeness.

Tension, yes, Simon decided, but not necessarily between each other. They had a right to be crashing from the stress of the last ten days. He knew they had begun to mend their fences after Alex, that they had come to some sort of understanding, some agreement between them. Then Jim and he had abruptly left for Mexico, and something had happened to Jim in the grotto there. Some mind-expanding hallucinogenic force-fed to him by Barnes. Probably what's causing the zone-outs. It couldn't have done his system any good.

Just before he reached the freeway, he pulled off the road into an espresso drive-through and got a large iced latte for the road. The woman at the window could see into the truck, her eyes taking in Ellison and Sandburg, a slight smile curving her lips. Fortunately, she said nothing, so Simon didn't have to explain them. He wasn't sure how to explain them.

The roads were relatively clear to the freeway entrance, and he eased into the light flow of traffic, reaching for the cold drink. He needed the extra caffeine right now. The promise of being home in the next two hours was seductive. An hour past in silence, the two men with him sleeping, then finally a bump in the road woke Sandburg.

Dazed blue eyes blinked at the freeway ahead of them; the sun was just beginning to set and painting the western sky on their left with pinks and peaches against the darker evening blue on their right. "Nice out," Blair whispered.

"Not much traffic," Simon agreed, glancing over to his passengers.

Blair was studying his sleeping friend, then turned and stared out the front window as the truck continued to speed along. "Simon, could I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Harvey told me that Jim zoned for a long time the night of the raid."

"That's right. I was only there for the last thirty minutes, but he had--"

Blair's head turned sharply to face him. "Thirty minutes! What?" The outrage was clear. "He zoned for over thirty minutes?"

"Over two hours." Might as well let him know it all now.

He could feel Sandburg staring at him, then the young man looked vacantly at the dashboard. "Why?" he asked, quietly, although Simon knew he didn't expect the captain to answer his question. "Why so long? Do you know what he zoned on?" Blair asked, finally.

"From what I gathered, he zoned trying to find out what it was that you were drugged with."

"What do you mean?"

Simon finished off the last of his drink. "Jim was listening to what was happening with you. He realized your soup must have been drugged, so my guess is he tried to taste it. Or maybe smell it."

"From how far away?" Sandburg whispered.

"Two miles."

"He thought he could taste what I was eating from two miles away? Or smell it?" Sandburg shook his head a little, as though to clear it, to make the idea make sense. "That's wild. What made him think that he could do that, I wonder?"

"He was just worried about you."

"I know. It's just weird that he zoned for that long. He's never done that before." Sandburg massaged his temples, trying to think. "His senses have been fluctuating, ever since what happened in Mexico. I had thought they would level off again, but it might take longer than I figured. He told me they're still uneven."

"But you think they'll go back to being the way they were before?"

Blair nodded, then shrugged. "How the hell do I know, really? I'm just guessing."

Simon laughed. "You and Harvey are a lot alike."

"You think so? Why?" Sandburg looked at him with interest.

"Well, for starters, if Evan had Jim's senses, I'd have to say Harvey was his guide."

"I thought the same thing," Sandburg mused. "I'm surprised you saw it, too."

"It's the guessing he was doing, more than anything. Intuitive leaps that reminded me of how you operate sometimes. Looks like you're making it up as you go."

"Simon, that's really all I'm doing sometimes."

"What about that 'instinctive behavior' you used to talk about?"

Sandburg thought about it. "Maybe. I used to think that's all it ever was. Just closing my eyes and making a wild stab in the dark for an answer. Maybe that's all there is to be a guide."

"We used to call it 'thinking outside the boxes' or 'thinking outside the lines'." Simon caught a glimpse of Blair's incredulous smile, and smiled himself.

"You?"

"Hey, I had a past, too, you know," he said, in his defense.

"Now, let me get this straight. You're almost sounding like it's okay for me to 'think outside the box.'"

"Just pick your times appropriately."

"I'll try." Blair was staring at Jim again, and Simon glanced over to see the anxious frown on the anthropologist's face.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm just worried about Jim. He looks so tired."

"He hasn't slept much."

"Why didn't he sleep last night? They kicked him out of my room at 10:00 in the evening and didn't let him back in until I had breakfast."

Simon stole a look at the young man. "He sat in a chair outside your room. They wouldn't let him stay in the room, but they couldn't force him to leave the hospital."

Blair blinked, glancing away. "He didn't leave? Why?"

Banks shrugged, trying to dismiss the topic. "We should have you home by 9:45, which means I'll be home by 10:00." They slowed down and pulled to the side of the road as an ambulance raced by them. Satisfied it had cleared and there were no secondary emergency vehicles coming, Simon drew the truck back on the freeway.

And now, because of the sirens and whatever else, Ellison was awake. The detective shifted slightly, stifling a yawn. "What's the emergency?"

"An ambulance."

Jim closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Heart attack victim at the Lakewood Casino. There's a doctor in attendance. The ambulance's ETA is two minutes."

"Good," Blair murmured.

"They have the situation under control, then." Simon looked over to Jim, seeing the nod of agreement. "How you doing, Jim?" Banks tried. "You know, with everything?" he qualified, grimacing at his weakly worded question.

Ellison exhaled softly, then cleared his throat. "We're fine--"

"Fine," Banks said along with him. "I know. How else are you?"

Sandburg laughed, the tiny chuckle escaping around a yawn. "Hey, you know us, Simon. We thrive on this stuff. Maybe we should go see where that ambulance is heading. Might be something for us to do." He grinned and bounced a little, faking energy.

"Ignore him," Ellison said, his voice sounding equally at ease. "He needs to take his meds and sleep for a week."

"Oh, yeah, Rip van Winkle? I noticed you were nodding off here, too, Jim."

"I'm tired, Chief. We're all tired," Ellison countered. "What about you, Simon?"

"Exhausted. I've already told them we're taking tomorrow morning off. We can head into the station at noon."

"You and I, maybe. Sandburg isn't going anywhere until he visits his doctor on Friday."

"That's three days away!" Blair exclaimed.

"And?"

Wisely, Sandburg chose not to reply. He just patted Jim's leg tolerantly, as though he were a demented lunatic who one didn't take seriously.

"I'm serious, Chief."

"Yup."

"You're not going anywhere."

Sandburg nodded, staring with great interest at the passing scenery. "So you say."

"At home. Until Friday. Off your foot."

Sandburg elbowed Banks lightly, rolling his eyes at the captain when he glanced over. "He's such a kidder, isn't he?"

When Simon looked at them again three minutes later, they were both asleep.

Sandburg thumped slowly down the hallway outside the loft, then balanced on his crutches as Jim turned the key in the lock. The door opened, and Sandburg stumbled sleepily into the loft. "Home!" he exclaimed, triumphantly. "We made it. I thought we'd never get here."

"It only took two hours," Ellison said, following him inside.

"Yeah, I know. But it's been a long time since..." Sandburg's words trailed off. It's been a long time since I've been here.

"It's stuffy. Can you open the balcony doors?" Ellison dropped the duffel bag inside the door, shut the door, punched in the code, slid the safety lock into position, and drew the chain. "I'll check the fridge and see what we need."

"Sure." Blair wanted to go straight to his room, fall on the bed, and sleep until next week, but he could tell already that the plants needed watering, and the answering machine light was flashing, and Jim was right, the loft was stuffy. Besides all that, there was a niggling feeling at the back of his head telling him he needed to talk to Jim. He was going to start paying more attention to that feeling. He knew Jim had a headache; he could see it in the man's face: the slightly narrowed eyes, the furrow between his brow, the edge to his words.

Blair hung up his jacket, glancing longingly toward his bedroom. He could hear the fridge opening behind him, and Jim's quiet sigh. "Hey, Jim, why don't we just go out for breakfast tomorrow and forget about buying groceries tonight?" He retrieved his crutches and crossed awkwardly around furniture to the front windows, fumbling with the catch on the balcony door. All the locks and security had been changed and upgraded after Alex. Jim had Simon change the locks while Blair was still in the hospital; then when they stayed on another week in Mexico, Simon had overseen the additional security that Jim had requested. It seemed a little much, but Blair wasn't about to argue, even if he couldn't get the balcony door open. He'd had only one day to experiment with them before he was kidnaped, so he figured it would come easier with time. Or maybe when he was more awake.

"Jim?" he asked again, when his partner didn't answer him. He turned around and watched Jim close the fridge and go to the door. "Jim, just forget it, okay. Don't bother. We can go out for breakfast. My treat."

"We've got coffee, so that's not a problem. I'm just going to run down to the corner and pick up a quart of milk."

"I'll have mine black. It's okay."

"No problem." Ellison flipped open his wallet, checked it, and returned it to his pocket. "I'll be right back." He reversed his previous actions at the door: slipped off the chain, unlocked the safety latch, punched in the code, and opened the door. "Need anything?"

"No." Blair watched the door close, leaving him alone in the loft. Jim?

The door reopened. "Lock up after me, Chief. Do you remember the code to lock it?"

"Yes."

"I'll knock when I get back." The door closed again, and he could hear Jim's key turning in the lock, the footsteps fading, the ting of the elevator as it opened.

Jim? He crutched his way through the living room back to the front door, then balanced on one foot, his hands reaching for the chain. He stared at it for a long minute, then his hand fell away, unable to complete the act. He couldn't do it. His head felt numb, heavy.

Why?

Footsteps. A key. The nob turning.

He stumbled backwards, bumping into the post behind him, one crutch falling to the floor as he steadied himself on the post.

Jim's face came into sight. "Chief? What's the problem? Why didn't you lock up?"

His heart was pounding. He crammed his sweaty hand in his pocket.

"Chief?"

"I couldn't."

Jim stared at him, his face blank. "Why not?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes. No. You're just going down to the corner."

"To get milk. I'll be able to hear you."

"I know."

"It's not far."

"I know."

"But I want you to lock the door."

"You're locking it with the key."

"Double lock it, then. And draw the chain. Use the code. You'll be fine."

"I can't," he whispered.

Jim stood silently, staring at him. At least he didn't yell. Or demand an explanation. He just came back inside the loft, locked and double-locked the door, drew the chain, punched in the code, and hung his coat up.

"What about the milk?" Blair asked, from his spot against the post.

"I'll get some in the morning." Jim handed him his crutch. "I'll have my coffee black, too. I don't mind."

"Okay." Blair turned around, arranged the crutches under his arms, and went back to the balcony door, his fingers finding the catch and opening it easily this time. The night air was cooler, a breeze coming up the hill from the bay, and after the restaurant and the cramped ride home in the truck, it was refreshing. He stepped outside onto the balcony, his head tilted back, giving the air opportunity to slide around him, to caress his skin.

He could hear Jim in the kitchen, putting on the kettle, making tea. Probably herbal tea that didn't take milk. Or maybe one of those little hot chocolate packages that you just added water to. Jim seemed to think of them as a coffee substitute.

Awkwardly, he lowered himself to the lawn chair and stared up at the sky. It was ten o'clock on one of the longest days of the year, so it was still a little light out, even though the sun had long ago set. The stars weren't out yet, but in the next few minutes full night would arrive and chase away the last bands of pink across the western sky, like some dim memory vanishing from sight.

The kettle boiled. He could hear it from where he sat, hear the abrupt whistle cut off as Jim snatched it from the element. Jim was just inside the loft, in the kitchen. Not too far away.

Too far away.

He turned in the chair until he could see him through the balcony window in the kitchen. His heart was beating too quickly. Jim lifted his head and looked at him, his head tilting slightly as he listened.

"Jim?" Blair murmured, feeling the tightness across his throat.

"I'll be right there," Jim called out, stirring the hot chocolate quickly. Their eyes met as he cleared the balcony doors and put the two mugs on the old door frame that served as their coffee table.

They sat side-by-side on the deck chairs, elbows touching, fingers wrapped around their mugs, tight muscles relaxing, panic fading, watching the night sky settle in around them and the stars gradually appearing in the sky.

"Jim, something's wrong with us."

"I know," Ellison acknowledged, looking straight ahead at Cascade's skyline.

"What is it?"

The sentinel shook his head. "I don't know."

"We still okay?"

"Yeah, Chief. We'll figure it out." Ellison stared silently out at the night, his jaw clenching and unclenching, while Sandburg tried to get his breathing under control. Ellison laughed finally, a sad sound trapped in his throat. He leaned across to grab Sandburg's hand. "We'll figure it out," he said, again, and then stood up, pulling Blair with him.

Blair twisted his hand around until their palms met. "I'm glad to be home," he said, his voice still little more than a whisper.

"So am I." Jim wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, chasing away some of his fears. "We'll talk more in the morning." With a last look up at the full moon, Jim released him and helped him into the loft.

Sandburg let himself be lowered onto his bed, weariness robbing him of any thought of resisting.

For it was Jim.

If he had to pass on control to someone else, it might as well be Jim. Jim would take care of him, of that he was certain. Jim would make sure he was okay, make sure he was safe for the night. Make sure no one would hurt him.

Why am I so tired? I slept in the truck on the way home. He fleetingly wondered if Jim had put something in the hot chocolate, but then the memory surfaced that he had taken the pills the hospital had given him, which were bound to put him to sleep.

And Jim was just making sure everything was okay. Feeling guilty, Blair tried to help his partner settle him for the night, but his flailing hands were captured and placed lightly on his chest. Okay. I get it. Still, he tried to open his eyes, but they resolutely stayed shut. Just as well, I can't think straight. If I was walking around, I'd probably injure myself even more.

Jim was talking to him, but the sounds didn't make any coherent sense. But Jim probably knew that. Blair sighed, listening to the calming tones, feeling them lull him closer to sleep. If he starts singing 'Rockabye, baby, on the treetop" I'm gonna scream. He chuckled at the thought and felt Jim tap his nose once, startling him quiet.

Time disappeared for a moment, lost in the overwhelming thought: I'm home. Thank you God, I'm home. I'm home.

Tears leaked through his closed eyelashes, running down the side of his face. In the heat of the evening, Blair shivered at the sensation of the cool tears, feeling the shiver multiply and ricochet throughout his body. I almost didn't make it. Almost. So close. But I'm really home.

Home was suddenly-- vividly-- contrasted with 'not home'.

He was back in the dirt grave and there were bodies around him, dead flesh against his bare skin, dried blood scraping his bruises. The smell...

He coughed, a deep hacking sound that scared him, and he raised his hands to push away the bodies, to let himself breathe fresh air, unpolluted by death. Again his hands were caught and held, Jim's voice whispered to him through the dark void, and Blair came back, flinging into the moment, the clench of fists on his lungs miraculously eased. Back home.

Back home.

I'm home.

The tears continued to well up. His left shoe was removed and he was gently rolled to his side, a pillow beneath the walking cast on his ankle. Jim's hand on his face felt nice and he must have made some small noise of appreciation, for suddenly Jim was massaging his temples, both hands drawing soothing circles on his brow.

I should be doing this for him. He's the one with the headache.

Jim had a headache. Blair remembered seeing the pain in his eyes, the tight line of his jaw and mouth, the furled brow. Yet Jim had sat with him outside on the balcony, talking to him because he needed someone to sit with and talk to, and now the sentinel was making sure his guide was resting comfortably before taking care of himself.

That's not right, Jim. I should be taking care of you. I want...

Blair raised his hands, and, eyes still closed, found Jim's face above his own. No strength to do anything fancy, he just held his partner's face in his hands, willing all the healing within him to touch the pain of the man who was caring for him with such manifold gentleness and love.

You're home, too, Jim.

He thought it, then found the strength to say it aloud before surrendering to sleep as the murmured whisper of his partner's words spoke over him like an ancient blessing.

The upper floor was sweltering. James Ellison lay stretched out on his bed in the darkness, blinking wearily at the ceiling of the loft bedroom. He had been drifting, waiting for sleep to overtake him, when the silvery threads stretching from beam to beam registered on his sight. His eyes traced the cobwebs, the long, fine strands, a lattice of netting to catch the starlight that filtered through the upper windows. He frowned, adding that to his growing list of things to do: clean the windows. Everything needed cleaning. The captain had said to take a few days off work; tomorrow he would... or maybe the next day. Soon.

He stared at the cobwebs again, clenching his jaw. Cobwebs meant things were being forgotten, neglected. The loft really needed a good scrubbing. If he'd been thinking properly, he would have cleaned the floors and walls while the furniture was out of the loft a few weeks previous-- but then, if he had been thinking properly, he never would have pulled the furniture out in the first place.

And besides everything else that had gone wrong that week, by moving the furniture out of the loft, then back into it, Ellison had stirred up a lot of dust. It still hung lazily in the night air, the place musty from their latest absence.

Before retiring for the evening, Ellison had left the balcony door open in an attempt to circulate air in the suffocating loft. It was only working marginally; the cobwebs were shifting slightly, touched by a faint draft that didn't seem to reach him as he lay naked, sweating, above the bedcovers. He felt strangely vulnerable, exposed beneath the starlight, caught in the stillness of the night, his aching body trapped by those thin, gossamer, dust-flecked strands that stretched like chains across the rafters.

He breathed shallowly, his limbs still, his hands flat against the cool sheet beneath him. He needed to sleep, to forget housecleaning, unpacking, or the laundry that needed to be done. Or the paperwork waiting on Simon's desk, details hidden in a secured file. Or the strained memories of confused days and tortured nights.

He needed to let himself sink into his mattress and sleep in the oppressive, stuffy, muggy, airless loft.

At least Sandburg was sleeping.

The thought both gladdened his heart and irritated him. Then saddened him. His guide must be beyond exhausted to have fallen asleep so quickly. Ellison, at least, had taken a cold shower, but his partner, with the pink cast around his foot, had shaken his head that it was too much bother to even consider and had let himself be assisted to bed. And was now asleep.

Unlike his roommate.

Well, he couldn't blame Sandburg. Sandburg magic had taken the headache away that had been plaguing him all evening. It still hovered just out of reach, but for the most part, it was under control now. Almost as if the kid had harnessed it, subdued it, then handed him back the controls. But, as with anything one kept under tight control, once Jim fell asleep, he knew his control would be lost and the headache would be back.

Ellison couldn't even blame his senses for keeping him awake. They were quiet, not bombarding him with information or giving him useless data, or any of the other problems he'd had in the last weeks. In the suffocating mustiness of the moment, he mentally slid up the dials a fraction, as though they were a stereo equalizer needing adjustment, in the hopes that maybe he would then feel the breeze that had stirred the cobwebs earlier.

As if they had only needed prodding, the dials slid up higher on their own, into the mid range, triggering exactly what he had been trying to avoid. He shut his eyes, feeling a shift in reality that he had experienced while Sandburg had been missing, the slide from Cascade into the dream jungle. Maybe if the jungle had been cooler, he would have gladly let himself go.

With a sigh, he sat up, stretched, and lay back again, this time on his side, his legs sprawled across the mattress. He wasn't ready to dream yet. Not tonight. If he could put off the descent into that world a few more minutes... maybe enjoy the disassociated hovering of his thoughts...he would be able to direct his attention to some other sort of occupation besides the lure of the jungle. Sandburg was back; the dreams should have left. The dreams should have left. Right?

Why the hell do I dream so much?

Well, that wasn't really the question. Everyone dreamed. It was healthy.

Then why do I have to dream of the jungle?

Sandburg had answers, but when they had last discussed them while in Mexico, Sandburg had come up with a selection of suggestions, a wide range of ideas that might explain his dreams and his dreamscape.

Such a strange term-- dreamscape-- one that Sandburg used easily. Your dreamscape. The place Ellison dreamed, the place his mind had invented for him to act out his uncertainty and longing by speaking to him in images he understood.

Or maybe it really was a spirit level he accessed, conversing with animal spirits and long-dead friends from another life. Blue images, touched with other colors that didn't quite appear normal, enough so he knew this was a different plane altogether.

His guide had no answers. Sandburg said it could be both. Or neither. Or a combination Ellison had yet to understand, mixed with other truths and mysteries that he had yet to dream of. There are more mysteries under heaven and earth than are thought of in your philosophies...

Or something like that. Shakespeare never was one of his strong points. At least, he thought it was Shakespeare. Ellison smiled, shifting his face into the pillow, wiping his damp forehead on the pillowcase.

Jungle Man, Sandburg had called him, laughing hysterically while they walked on the beach in Mexico. Instead of a cape and tights, in his dreamscape he had his trusty camouflage pants, his bandana on his head, a crossbow fitted into the crook of his arm. Jungle Man! Blair had sung, to the massacred tune of "Spiderman". Jungle Man, Jungle Man, does whatever a panther can... Look out, here comes the Jungle Man.

He smiled again, hearing the laughter of his guide, enjoying the memory, the cartoon poses on the beach in the evening as they sang and hammed for a non-existent audience, letting friendship hide the pain of uncertainty, the gurgle of life welling from his partner's soul to spill across his own need, bathing him in that cleansing flow.

A good memory.

Maybe there were good dreams, too, but Ellison seldom remembered them. All he had were murky memories.

Since that first day when Sandburg had been kidnapped, when he woke, there was just the impression that he had been running through the trees, stopping and listening to the distant babble of water, moving, prowling, pacing as the dream wore on. Searching for--

For--

He turned over onto his back and closed his eyes.

Sandburg's here. He's home, in his bed, and already asleep. As I should be.

But Ellison couldn't get to sleep. His thoughts rambled on, taking him through the last week, hovering over the ache he had felt when Sandburg had let himself be recaptured, an ache that had led down a path to a full blown zone-out. Two and a half hours. A personal record, if he were to keep track. But then, he didn't have to; Sandburg lived for such statistics, detailing times and circumstances, reasons and solutions.

Sandburg.

Again Ellison's eyes opened, as though his sight would augment his hearing as he let his senses home in on the familiar heartbeat. It was faster than normal, though. His guide was dreaming. The strange thing was, Sandburg never could tell him what his dreams were about. The young man was the shaman, the mystic one, the spiritual one, but he never remembered his dreams. Well, except the one they had shared. The rest of his dreams were more correctly labeled 'nightmares'.

The strange thing Ellison had noticed was that neither dreamed when they slept next to each other. Or if they dreamed, they didn't remember them.

He sat up again, still listening. Blair seemed to have calmed, the dream moving on, breathing and pulse returned to normal, but there was a tension in the air that felt uncomfortable, like a thunderstorm moving in. The sentinel altered his own inhalations and exhalations to match his guide's, the exercise easing the pressure between his temples, but still leaving him restless and edgy. He reached for his boxers, earlier kicked down to the foot of the bed, and slipped them on, picking up, then discarding, his terry robe. Too hot.

The stairs were cool beneath his feet, the breeze from the bay beginning at last to reach the interior of the loft as he padded down the hill, stumbling slightly on a loose stone. The path leveled out and he walked along it, feeling the brush of plants against his legs and...

He stopped, his eyes snapping closed.

What the--?

He touched his arm, pinching the tanned skin. The appropriate pain registered on his senses. He was awake, if that was any indication. So what had happened? This wasn't a dream.

Was it so easy to drift from one world to the other?

Eyes still shut, he concentrated, finding his location, the scent of the loft, the faint trace of ginseng tea they had made earlier, the unmistakable essence of his guide asleep in the other room. Scent seemed to work best whenever he was disoriented, then his hearing would help convince his mind where he was. Cautiously, he opened his eyes and walked past his bookshelves and the stereo and over to the open doorway, then stepped through to the slatted floor of the balcony.

The moon, so full just a few days before, now looked robbed, neither a full moon nor a half moon, just a slightly off-kilter circle above him, moments from dipping behind the buildings in the distance skyline and disappearing for the evening. The sky was clear, no sign of clouds that signaled an imminent storm, although the wind had begun to pick up. Ellison could feel the breeze now, the refreshing draft, however slight, cooling the sheen of perspiration that covered his skin. He was still shaking. The blood pounded through his veins, his temples throbbing as his adrenaline-charged pulse strove to slow down.

He would talk to Sandburg. Somehow they would fix this.

With the resolution, came the memory that when Sandburg had woken in the hospital after his near-drowning, his guide had seen only the jungle for several days until his sight had resolved itself. Ellison couldn't remember what they had done to fix it, or if it had just changed back one day. Is this what is happening to me? Am I going to see only the jungle soon?

On the main road, crossing to one side of their apartment building, a steady stream of cars passed, even at midnight. He let his gaze expand across the blocks to the waterfront, skipping over the rippled crest of waters on the bay, to the buildings of Cascade's downtown core, the multi-colored lights of traffic signals and office towers a strange beacon of life into the night. Below it, the reflection, as always a distorted version of the real thing, at the mercy of the wind and the waves and the tug boats that never ceased to chug through the harbor waters.

Inside the loft, Sandburg moaned, and Ellison turned, stepping through the clearing and ducking into the cave where his guide lay sleeping, his sight expanding in the darkness to see... Sandburg's room. The young man lay facing away from him, curled on his side, the covers tangled about his legs on the bed, his face scrunched in distress.

Taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself, Ellison sat on the edge of the mattress. Sandburg moaned again, and the sentinel tugged gently at Sandburg's shoulder, turning him to lie on his back. "Chief?"

"Huh? Wha--?" Sandburg woke with a gasp, eyes blinking in the shadows of the room.

Ellison reached to touch the side of his face. No fever; in fact, Sandburg felt cooler than he had the right to be in the muggy evening air, and the shivers Ellison could feel were probably in reaction to the breeze from the side window over his guide's sleep-warmed body. He straightened Sandburg's foot which was bent beneath him, the pink walking cast at an uncomfortable angle.

"Jim?"

"Yeah. You awake now?"

Sandburg's shiver became more pronounced. "What time is it?" he whispered, clutching at the sheet Ellison pulled over him.

"Just after twelve."

"Shit."

"What's wrong?" Ellison let his hand rest over his guide's heart.

"Can't sleep. I just got to sleep finally and something woke me up."

"You were dreaming."

"Yeah. Probably. Don't remember it though." Sandburg yawned, then sighed, impatient with the warring demands of his body. "Can't sleep. Can't stay awake. This sucks, man."

"Want me to stay here?"

The silence answered him. Ellison nudged his partner over, then stretched out beside him.

"Thanks," Sandburg whispered.

"No problem. We're probably both just a little wired."

"Yeah... It's just kinda strange, you know. Being here."

"Here with me?"

Sandburg shook his head in the dark. "No, not that. Just being in my own bed. I mean, I've been looking forward to sleeping in my own bed for quite awhile, but right now it's like I can't seem to relax. Like I'm waiting for something... something ominous to happen."

"I thought we were going to have a thunderstorm, but the sky is clear."

"Yeah? The air feels kinda strange. Is that it?"

"How does the air feel?"

Sandburg shrugged. "I don't know. Just heavy or something." He rolled onto his side, facing Ellison, then shifted back until he was against the outer wall. "Just feels weird."

"Tell me if you want me to go."

"I don't want you to go."

"Okay. Just tell me when you do."

"I will," Sandburg said, after a moment.

Ellison watched him, watched the eyes finally close as sleep overtook Blair, capturing his consciousness. Strangely, Ellison felt lonely suddenly, as though he were once again alone in the loft. He turned his head, then repositioned himself on his side on the double-wide futon. He rested his hand on the mattress between them, and without waking, Blair's hand came to cover his.

Ellison closed his eyes, feeling a sense of peace creep over him finally, a lifting of the weight he hadn't realized he was still carrying. Blessed Protector, indeed. Who just crawled into whose bed for reassurance?

He opened his eyes again, wondering if he should leave, but the thought was too difficult to hold on to and he went to sleep instead.

Blair moved his leg, bumping the cast on the wall behind him. "Ow." His foot hurt. Not a nice way to wake up. "Ow." His hands grasped the sheet as he felt his mattress suddenly shift beneath him. "Huh?" He cracked his eyes open long enough to see Jim's shadowy figure disappearing from the room. Blair was trying to figure out why Jim was there and more importantly, why he had left, when a moment later Jim was back with some water and his pills.

"Can you sit up?"

"Yeah." Blair tried, but coordination seemed to have fled in the middle of the night. He could get his eyes open, but only for brief glimpses of his surroundings. "Uh, actually--"

Jim helped him sit up enough to swallow the painkillers and gulp down the glass of cool water. "Easy," Jim warned, taking the glass away from him. "You were thirsty. Want some more?"

He shook his head, wanting only to go back to sleep. "Is it still night?" He let his eyes stay shut, relieved when Jim situated him flat on the mattress again.

"Three o'clock. Just after."

Blair groaned. Hours to go yet. "Sorry."

"No problem," Jim said quietly, laying back beside him.

"You don't have to stay." There was no response, so he turned his head, prying his eyes open to see Jim in the dim light that came through his window. "You okay?"

"Yeah." If the response wasn't convincing, what Jim added clinched it. "We can talk about it in the morning."

Which meant, of course, that Jim Ellison was not okay. But Blair had no brainpower left to deal with it. Drugs one; Sandburg nothing.

"Stay?" he asked, saying the only thing he could just as sleep won the battle.

The light pressure of Jim's hand on his arm was answer enough.

And then the pain drifted away.

Ellison woke four hours later, smiling at the morning sunshine visible through the side window. He had made it through the night without any more incidents. His eyes dropped from the eastern window in Sandburg's room to rest on his partner's face, traces of pain visible on his features even in the relaxed sprawl on the bed. Carefully, he got up from the bed and crossed the hall to the bathroom, using the facilities and washing his face. Coffee. He started to make their morning java, when he remembered there was no milk. And they both took milk in their coffee. Sandburg took a lot of milk, even opting for a latte when there was a choice. It was no real bother to throw on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts and head downstairs. He could get a pint or a quart of milk at the bakery below them. They always had something in the deli section along with the juices and sodas.

Half way down the first flight of stairs, he felt himself slow down, each step reluctantly following the last.

Milk. I'm just going to get milk. He's fine. He's safe.

He's alone.

Ellison paused on the stairs, holding on to the banister.

This is ridiculous.

He deliberately walked down to the ground floor, ignoring the rising panic, the increase of his heart rate, the difficulty in catching his breath.

"Hey, Detective." Rosy looked up as he entered the store. "How do you always know just when the bread is just out of the oven?"

His shaking hand grasped hold of the metal handle on the glass refrigerated display case, tugging the door open and grabbing the milk he needed. "I'll take this and some... raisin bread."

"Raisin?" She looked puzzled and he realized the fresh bread was the whole wheat.

"And a loaf of whole wheat, of course," he added quickly, gasping slightly to get enough air in his lungs. "I'm in a bit of a rush, Rosy. I'm waiting for a phone call."

"Sure thing, Detective." She handed him the bread and waved him off. "I'll put it on your tab."

"Thanks." He rushed out the door and up the stairs, taking two at a time.

"Jim?"

He could hear the door to the loft open, and Sandburg's distressed call combined with the sound of his guide limping down the third floor hallway above him, the walking cast thumping on the flooring.

"Jim? Where are you?"

"Coming!" he called out, hoping his voice would carry. He was at the second floor heading for the third when the door at the top of the stairs opened and he knew without being able to see that Sandburg had emerged onto the landing.

"Jim? Is something wrong? What's happening?" his guide asked, sounding panicked as he tried to see over the railing.

"I just went to get milk," Ellison called out, still climbing the stairs quickly.

"Why?"

Then came the sound he hadn't wanted to hear. The sound of the cast slipping on the cement stairs. The startled grunt, followed by a gasp of pain.

Ellison rounded the final corner in time to catch Sandburg in mid flight as he tumbled down the stairs, then rolled with him down to the next landing, doing his best to shelter the younger man from the worst of the fall. They landed in a tangled heap against the corner of the stairwell, Ellison moving out of the way quickly to see how his guide was.

"Ouch," Blair mumbled, staring at his foot, the frame of the walking cast bent. "Ouch," he repeated. "Jim, it's pressing against my foot. It's pinching something. Ouch!" he said louder, pulling at the cast, getting in the way of Ellison's hands. There was an elaborate set of catches and velcro holding the walking cast in place, and Ellison's fingers moved quickly, trying to straighten the bent buckles that were putting pressure on the injured ankle.

"Just take it off, okay?" Blair asked, panting in pain as he lay sprawled against the stairs, a faint sheen of sweat on his face.

"I've undone a few of the clasps. That should ease the pressure."

"No, just take it off my foot."

"Let's let the doctors decide that."

"I want it off. I don't need it."

"The doctor in Seattle said to wear the walking cast for a week, to give your ankle support--"

"I won't walk on my foot. Take it off."

"Sandburg, you--"

"Take it off!"

"Okay, okay." Ellison began to undo the latches he had just straightened.

"It's pink, Jim," Sandburg muttered. "Why is it pink?"

"It's more of a salmon color--"

"It's pink," Blair pronounced gloomily, reaching for Ellison's arm as the sentinel finished and hauled him upright. "Why, Jim? Why'd you do that? Did you think it would be funny?" Blair shivered.

"Why did I do that? Why do you think I'm responsible for it?" Ellison leaned his guide against the railing and jogged down a few stairs to collect the plastic bag with his groceries.

"Simon said so."

"He did, did he?" The detective glanced up at Sandburg, still in obvious pain from his fall. "Well, maybe I okayed the choice, but you were the one who wanted pink. You said white was too dull. You wanted something with more color in it."

"What? You're saying that I chose pink? I think not. That is so not a thing I would do."

Ellison sighed. He was helping Sandburg up the stairs and they still had five stairs to go. "Did I mention you were high on drugs at the time?"

"No." Sandburg paused mid-hop. "I was?"

"You were."

"So... what? What did I do?"

"You insisted you wanted pink. I suggested white and you started crying. I told the intern to go ahead and put a pink one on."

"I wasn't crying." ~hop~

"Crocodile tears."

"Are you sure?" ~hop~

"My blue shirt still isn't dry."

~hop~ ~hop~ "Do I want to know the rest of this story?" ~hop~

They had reached the door, and Ellison could feel Sandburg's growing shivering. He helped him into the loft, steering him to the nearest chair. "Nah, the story only goes downhill from there. But one good thing-- you did get the intern's phone number."

"Yeah?" Sandburg said, with a laugh, though he was biting his bottom lip to keep it from shaking. "That's me. Always working, right?" He gasped slightly as he sat down.

Ellison got a throw pillow from the couch and put it on another of the kitchen chairs, elevating Sandburg's leg. "Well, George was a little confused about it, so he may not have given you his real number."

Sandburg looked up at him, pain forgotten. "George? As in the intern was a guy named George?" The look of panic faded. "This was in Seattle, right?"

"Right."

"So... George is in Seattle. Whew."

"Well, he said if you were into guys, he has this friend in Cascade who he would give your number to."

"It just keeps getting worse, doesn't it?" Sandburg started shivering again, staring at his foot. "It hurts."

"The cast was bent on one side, putting pressure on your ankle. Get dressed and we'll go to the hospital here and have them look at it. Maybe they'll say you don't need it at all."

"Is my ankle broken?"

Ellison shook his head. "No. Badly strained, though. The walking cast was supporting it." He stood up, hands on his hips. "So what's the verdict? We going to the hospital?"

"No. No hospital. And no more drugs, okay?" Sandburg took the afghan Ellison handed him and wrapped it around his shoulders.

"Do they make you feel dizzy?"

"No, they ruin my social life. Get real, Jim. George??"

Ellison lightly whacked him on the side of the head, feeling a smile on his own face. "If we're not going to the hospital, you should be back in bed. It's still early."

"I'm not tired right now."

"You will be as soon as you take your meds."

"I'm not taking them. No hospital. No drugs."

Ellison stood again, arms crossed over his chest, doing his best to look firm. "Okay, here's my counter offer. No hospital, but you take your meds. Or the other way, we skip your meds and you go to the hospital and let the doctor decide."

Sandburg frowned, obviously trying to think his way out of that one, which only proved how tired he really was when he came up empty.

"Come on, Chief. In bed, take your meds, and have a nap while I make us a nice breakfast in about an hour and a half. Simon will be over later this morning."

"How about I take my meds and don't have a nap? I'll be fine."

"George, George, George of the Jungle..." Ellison sang, bringing the two tablets over to his partner.

"Okay. Good point," Sandburg said quickly, swallowing them. "Maybe a short nap might be in order before Simon gets here. I don't want to say something that scares the man."

"Too late, Sandburg," Jim said, taking the empty glass and setting it on the table, then helping his roommate into his bedroom and into bed.

"Jim?"

Ellison stood in the doorway, turning back to his partner. "Yes?"

"Sorry about reacting that way."

"What do you mean?"

"When you weren't here, when you were downstairs. Sorry about freaking out and everything. I'm not sure why that happened."

Ellison said nothing for a long moment, wondering whether he should just walk away from it all, or admit that he was just as unnerved as Sandburg by what had happened. "I'm not sure what happened either. I..." His voice trailed off as words fled.

"Same thing?" Sandburg asked quietly.

"Yeah," he said.

"Oh." Sandburg seemed to drift, then he smiled sadly, staring off into the distance. "Remember what I said about the water being warm?"

It took the sentinel a few moments to place the comment. A month before, when Blair was in the hospital after drowning in the fountain at Rainier, they had discussed their joined dream and Blair had said, "Come on in, my friend. The water's warm."

"I remember," Ellison said now, and touched his guide's forehead.

Within minutes, Sandburg was asleep.

Ellison paced the loft, around the table, past the stairs and the stereo, to the balcony doors, skirting along them, then cutting through the living area and around the coffee table, to the kitchen. Around the island, past Sandburg's room, back to the table, then repeating it. In six of the twenty-four trips, he was in the jungle.

In two of the twenty-four trips, he was the black jaguar in the jungle.

In sixteen of the twenty-four trips, he was just a frustrated detective, worrying about his partner and worrying about his own sanity.

Twice, he almost woke Sandburg up to demand an answer, to insist that his guide explain what was happening. Each time, he had stopped in the doorway and stared at Sandburg's exhausted sprawl on the bed, the too pale skin, the bruises and the dark circles beneath his eyes. So maybe it was okay to morph back and forth from the jungle. That's what it felt like, like the morphing special effect he'd seen on TV and on the movies. The weird shift from one shape to the other. From Cascade to jungle. From man to jaguar.

He stood motionless in the middle of the loft, hands at his side, arms held out from his body. Air currents swirled lazily around him, sliding over his bare arms and bare legs, the khaki shorts he wore the only clothing. With a shimmer the room began to shift, colors bleeding, running, changing to another hue, another shape.

"No," he whispered, halting its progress. He was really too tired for all this. Tired of fighting it.

Ellison closed his eyes and walked to the telephone, punching in Simon's number, then belatedly looking at his watch. It was four in the afternoon. Of course, the sun was still up. Why did he think it was later?

It wasn't so much that, as he had absolutely no idea what time it was. Middle of the night. Middle of the day. The sun should have been a clue, and when he started looking for clues, there were there. He was fairly certain he'd zoned. He would have had to, because the time didn't make sense. How much time had he lost over the afternoon? An hour? Two? Maybe even three? He remembered breakfast, but not lunch. Had he eaten lunch? No new dishes in the sink. Had Simon come over? He couldn't remember. He carried the ringing telephone to the fridge and withdrew a bottle of water.

Simon