Written: 1999
Published: Sentry Post 6 (2000), available from: members.aol.com/lhgraphics/
K Hanna Korossy (Anna Kelly)
"Jim, I'm telling you, you can do this," Blair warmed to his subject with customary enthusiasm, twisting sideways in the truck's passenger seat to face his partner. "You can already tell when someone is lying from their heartbeat and perspiration, right? Well, just broaden your sense of smell to include any changes. That, my friend, will be the smell of fear you're picking up."
Ellison had begun shaking his head before the anthropologist even stopped talking. "I don't know about that, Sandburg. I can't smell when people are happy or angry. Just because they talk about the 'smell of fear'..."
"But don't you see, they didn't just make up that expression! The body goes through chemical changes when you're afraid. Uh, the flight-or-fight instinct, the sudden strange taste in your mouth, the adrenalin pumping. All those are biochemical reactions that some animals -- dogs, for example -- with acute olfactory senses can pick up."
Jim grimaced. "So you're saying I'm like a mutt."
"No, that's not what I'm saying," Blair patiently countered with an almost-smile. "I'm saying your sense of smell is as good as some dogs'... we should run some tests on that, by the way, figure out if you can smell things some dogs can't... but, anyway," he waved his hands to dismiss the tangent, "You've probably been clued into some subconscious cues all along, including changes in odor, without even thinking about it; that's probably part of your 'cop instincts' for when something isn't right, but if you could learn to concentrate on it, isolate the olfactory input--"
"D'you swallow a dictionary this morning, Chief?" came the even interruption.
Sandburg flushed, restraining himself with effort. He often didn't understand how Jim could not get as excited as he about the possibilities of the detective's senses, but he had learned over the past two years when to take a hint. Jim tolerated a lot more these days than when they'd first started, particularly when he saw the benefits of Blair's newest theories, but he also had no qualms about letting the anthropologist know when enough was enough. "Sorry, Jim, it's just--"
"I know, interesting." And the detective's face softened into a look that might have been fond amusement. So he wasn't mad. Blair found himself relaxing and grinning in return.
"Yeah!"
"Well, can you rein in some of that enthusiasm long enough for us to stop and pick up some stuff for dinner? There isn't any coffee or milk in the house." Jim was already pulling the truck into the parking lot of the small market near the loft.
Blair tried, he really did, but they were walking into the store when another idea struck. "Hey, Jim, maybe I could sit in on an interrogation with you next time, go through some of the exercises with you, figure out if you can sense when the guy's about to snap?"
"Sandburg," Jim rounded on him, sounding over-patient like he did when he wasn't feeling patient at all. "You know you can't sit in on interrogations -- you're not a cop."
Blair made a face at him, deflating a little. How many times had he heard that one before? Jim turned back toward the store and he trailed after, not trying to suppress the mutter of, "So tell me something I don't know." Jim's back tightened fractionally in front of him -- there was no way he wouldn't have heard -- but he didn't turn or respond. Figured. Not like a rehashing of that old argument would have done either of their moods any good. But how could Blair be expected to do his job if Jim didn't let him into his own?
The store was empty, no late-night shoppers around. Which reminded Blair, they were out rather late. A full day of classes in the morning, library time mid-day, and police work all afternoon and evening had managed to get him to nearly 11pm before Blair had realized it.
"We need anything else, Chief?" Jim was asking as he picked up a basket and headed down the first aisle. A bag of coffee beans went into the basket, joined without pause by one of the teas Blair liked. It occurred to Blair to wonder how Jim had even noticed that he was almost out of that kind when the detective never touched the stuff, then decided it really didn't matter. But a little of his wounded pride eased. There was something very comfortable about having a friend who was conscious of your needs and wants.
"Uh, some bread," he hurried to answer Jim's question. "And maybe some hummus?"
Jim wrinkled his nose without turning. "You eat that stuff? What, uh, intestine stuffed with oatmeal and pork parts?"
"That's haggis, Jim," Blair corrected, grinning, "not hummus. Hummus is made from chick peas. Though, now that you mention it, haggis isn't bad, either. It sounds worse than it tastes."
It should have evoked some sort of disgusted response; sometimes that was the only reason he went off on the outrageous tangents he did, just to get a rise out of Jim, but his partner's attention was suddenly somewhere else completely. Blair immediately shut up. The Sentinel only got like that when he was concentrating on something outside of Blair's perception.
He followed Ellison's stare to the two young men who had just entered the back of the store and stood looking at the displays of magazines in the back. They looked like common skinheads, with long trenchcoats and shaved heads, not the kind of guys Blair tended to want to run into late at night in an alley, but their actions weren't particularly threatening or illegal. He glanced up at his partner again. The Sentinel's head was cocked, listening to something only he could hear.
"What's going on, Jim?" Blair finally ventured. "Are they saying something?"
Ellison frowned, shaking his head. "Their heartbeats. Both are going a mile-a-minute like they were just doing the hundred-meter dash," he said distractedly, his eyes still on the two men.
Blair pieced that together. "Like they're running from something?"
"Or planning something." Jim put down the basket and turned toward the front of the store and the clerk there. Blair followed him, the detective's unease begin to set him on edge, too. He trusted Ellison's senses, but even more, he trusted his friend's instincts.
A glance over his shoulder showed the two had abandoned the magazines and were also making their way to the front of the store down a different aisle, but he kept his observations to himself. Jim would be fully aware of the men's movements.
They reached the counter, the teenage clerk's welcoming smile fading at the sight of their serious faces, and absolutely disappearing when Jim pulled his badge. "Jim Ellison, Cascade PD. I think we might have a problem here." He turned a little as the men neared, one hand slipping under his coat toward the gun at his back. "Chief--"
The two skinheads moved with incredible speed, guns appearing in their hands almost instantly, before Blair could even see where they had pulled the weapons from. Already he was ducking behind his partner, sensing more than seeing Jim settle into his defensive cop stance.
And in that same split second, the clerk panicked and reached to his right under the counter, going for either an alarm button or a gun, Blair wasn't sure. It didn't matter. The gunmen had caught the movement as well and retrained their weapons on the threat, and they seemed on the verge of firing. Even Jim couldn't shoot fast enough to bring both of them down in time to save the kid.
Jim had clearly come to the same conclusion, because before Blair could stop him or consider the same course of action himself, the detective had launched himself over the counter in front of the kid, both pulling him down out of harm's way and interposing himself as shield.
The next second, both guns went off, one of the bullets striking the mirrored panel behind the clerk and shattering it, shards flying everywhere. The other...
"No!" Blair shouted, drawing the attention of the gunmen -- and both weapons -- to bear on him, and with some sense of self-preservation he kept his hands up and non-threatening. But at the same time he was rounding the counter and dropping on one knee next to the two bodies sprawled on the ground, both bloody and still. "No, Jim," he moaned, forgetting altogether about the bad guys as he gently rolled his partner off the clerk.
The kid came to life then, scampering back on all fours like a crab over the broken glass until he bumped into the wall behind him, then crouching there with huge, terrified eyes. He scrubbed almost absently at the blood that had splattered on his white apron, but with enough vigor that Blair was fairly sure he wasn't wounded himself. Which left Jim.
He was breathing; that was all Blair was certain of at first as he saw the labored rise and fall of his friend's chest, but that was a very important start. Ellison's eyes were also open and unfocused with the shock that followed a traumatic injury. The same shock usually numbed the injury for the first few minutes, Blair knew, but that didn't stop the body from reacting, blood pouring out, tissue dying... Oh, man, this was so not good.
"Jim?" he said gently, half-aware of one of the trenchcoats stepping around the counter behind him, but short of shooting him, there was no way they were going to interfere with what he needed to do. Hopefully, they wouldn't think one scared kid desperately trying to do first aid would pose any threat.
Jim's eyes flickered in response to his call, not yet aware enough to respond. He'd been hit in the lower back, no exit wound visible as Blair peered over his side. Good and bad news; exit wounds were often huge and messy and hemorrhaged quickly, but bullets that stayed in the body promoted infection and could continue to cause damage.
"Grab the money and let's get out of here, man," someone hissed to his left. The other gunman. He sounded just as nervous as Jim had said.
Blair heard the cash register ring somewhere above him, but it was a strangely detached observation. The two men would get what they'd come for and then get out of there, allowing Blair to call for help, and Sandburg wasn't about to start a confrontation or call attention to himself to slow them down in any way. All that he needed to concern himself with at the moment was his partner's glazed expression and the blood that was pooling beneath his hands. Blair was aware of it when the skinhead behind him drew back, but besides letting himself relax a fraction, the anthropologist didn't think about it too much.
The clerk was still cowering in silent shock a few feet away, apparently useless as a means of help, and Blair cast his eyes around for something that could be of service. His gaze fell on a pile of aprons tucked under the counter. Blair snagged one before the gunmen could even think he was going for a weapon, if they were still watching at all. Folded into a thick wad, it made a tolerable compress, and Blair pressed it hard against his partner's back, watching with sick dread as it immediately started to turn red.
Jim groaned at the pressure, his first real sign of awareness. Blair leaned over his side again to meet his eyes. "Jim? You with me?"
"Wha--?"
"Jim, it's Blair," he said smoothly. "Take it easy; you're hurt."
Dazed blue eyes worked sluggishly to process that.
"Hey, there're cops out there!" The earlier hiss was now a panicked yelp, and the words caught Blair's attention. He ventured a quick look above the counter.
The two gunmen stood on either side of the door, looking out toward the parking lot, their jerky movements betraying their distress at this turn of plans. The one who had spoken glanced away to his partner, who was shaking his head.
"They must've been out there and heard the shot. Of all the..." That voice was deeper, a little steadier than the other felon's.
Shadows moved outside, too far and dark for Blair to see clearly, but he recognized the stealth of movement. The cavalry had, indeed, arrived, and already seemed to be surrounding the place. It would have been amazing luck... except that they were outside and Blair, the clerk, and a seriously injured Jim were trapped inside with two desperate gunmen. And any delay could prove fatal to the injured cop.
"Well, we got hostages," the jittery one spoke up again, sinking Blair's heart with confirmation of what he'd dreaded. Jim couldn't afford this, not now.
One hand still pressing on his makeshift bandage, Blair stood up as far as he could. "Hey, guys, look, my friend here is hurt pretty bad. If you want hostages, fine, I'll stay, but let him go then. They're gonna go after you guys a lot harder if you're up for murder, too."
"Get down!" the first screeched at Blair, already turning to his partner in crime. "He's right; I don't wanna go up for murder! Let's take him and run."
The other trenchcoat shook his head. "They'll just gun us down if we go out there, with or without a hostage. We stay here until we can figure something out."
Blair's hopes sank even further. The second one was already calming down, which either meant experience or cold-bloodedness, and neither boded well for them. Blair's instincts said maybe he could have worked on the nervous one, turned him against his friend and forced their hand, but there was just no time. Sandburg's fingers were already warm and sticky from the soaked apron. He opened his mouth to try again with the two armed men, common sense muted by his desperation to help his partner.
"Chief."
The whisper was maybe the one thing that could have stopped him cold, and it did. Blair's attention turned away from the men at the door, completely returning to his partner as he dropped back on his knees beside the detective. "Right here, Jim."
Ellison didn't look as confused anymore, his gaze immediately sharpening on Blair, though lines of pain were beginning to collect around his eyes. "Wha's going on?"
"Two guys are trying to rob the store and when they tried to shoot the cashier, you got in the way, remember?"
A short nod. "He okay?"
Blair glanced up at the kid, who was staring at them both with a gaze that didn't seem quite aware. "Yeah, he's okay." More or less.
Another short nod, and Jim closed his eyes, grimacing as he took a ragged breath. Blair took the second to snag another apron, noticing at the same moment what the clerk had been reaching for: an alarm button. Moot point now. Sandburg bunched up the starched white material and pressed it on top of the soaked red one, absently listening to the two would-be thieves arguing by the door. Jim's breathing hitched, his face going positively gray.
Blair flinched. "Jim? I'm sorry, man, I'm just trying to stop the bleeding." He hesitated a second, then slid his free hand into the detective's closer one, wincing as Jim promptly crushed it. "I know it's getting bad, but find the dial, Jim. You can turn it down. It's there, just follow my voice so you can find it."
He glanced up automatically at the clerk to see if he was listening to the guide-talk, but the kid was staring over the counter at the door. Another glance at the gunmen told the anthropologist that they were also occupied and unconcerned for the moment. Blair supposed the one that had come behind the counter had already checked to make sure they had no weapons on hand there, and neither of them had had cause to look for and find Jim's gun. Blair could use it, of course, but he was neither trained to shoot accurately, nor foolish enough to try for two armed, edgy men.
His eyes returned to Jim, who was looking a little less... well, Blair gulped, like he was dying. The blue eyes fluttered open, finding him unerringly. "You're scared," Ellison unexpectedly murmured.
Blair nearly laughed, choking on the ironic humor. "Now you listen to me. I could've told you I was scared. You're bleeding all over the floor, Jim, and things are not looking too great here."
The detective seemed to be getting his second wind, eyes clearer and voice stronger as the shock wore off and he turned the pain down. The second apron was also only partially stained, the bleeding slowing, if not stopped, to Blair's somewhat relief. They still had a ways to go.
Injury never stopped Jim from thinking he was superhuman, though, and Sandburg had no warning before the detective was suddenly trying to sit up, both duty and Blair's fear powerful motivators. But Jim was no match for a bullet in the back. Blair was easing him down just as quickly as Ellison's strength gave out and the pain kicked in again, forcing a groan out of him.
"That was dumb," Blair chided gently. "You need to lie still or you're gonna bleed all over the place, Jim."
"Where are they?" Ellison ground out through a locked jaw.
"By the door. I think we're okay for the moment; there're cops all around the place and the trenchies are trying to figure out what to do. Find the dial, Jim." The last probably did more to relax the tensed expression than the situation report had. The second apron was becoming red alarmingly fast from Jim's imprudent movement, and Blair reached for a third with a chagrined sigh. This one he slid carefully under Ellison's side and tied around his waist to keep pressure on, noting with relief that Jim winced but didn't otherwise react. The Sentinel finally seemed to be succeeding in managing the pain.
But still, Blair thought as he felt along Ellison's wrist for the rapid pulse, there was only so much of his body's response that Jim could control, which meant that they still needed to get help quickly. And with Frik and Frak at the door not looking like they were going to leave or let them go any time soon, Blair was running dangerously low on options.
"Jim, I'm going to have to try something. Those two aren't going anywhere and we've got to get you some help. Not like any of us are safe around here in the meantime..."
"Chief--"
"I know, I know. I'm not a cop," Blair said wearily, anticipating the old argument.
Jim's eyes shone at him with unexpected feeling. "No... I was gonna say... be careful." And then the light faded, strength gone, and he slipped into unconsciousness, heartbeat still racing under the anthropologist's fingers.
Blair bit his lip, his own controls wavering under the strain. He was exhausted. He leaned his head against the counter for a second, trying to regroup chaotic thoughts. To think like a cop, he smiled bitterly at the thought, except maybe that wasn't what was needed here...
"M-maybe I can look after him?"
Sandburg's head jerked up as he stared at the clerk who'd finally emerged from his stupor, still white and wide-eyed but at least looking somewhat alert. He'd scooted fractionally forward and was gazing hesitantly at Blair.
"Uh, yeah, that'd be terrific, uh--"
"Mike."
"Mike," he repeated. He smiled a little, trying to be reassuring. "How're you doing?"
The kid shuddered, eyes hooded. "Don't ask, man."
"I hear that," Blair whispered, half to himself. Then, louder, "Make sure he doesn't move or loosen the bandages, okay? I'm going to try to get us some first aid supplies." He had more planned than that, but that looked to be about all Mike could handle.
The kid nodded a little uncertainly, sliding closer to keep watch over the injured detective. Blair hesitated, then carefully eased Jim's gun out from under his jacket, tucking it gingerly inside his own. He might need it as part of this half-baked plan. Mike's eyes went even wider, but Blair put a finger over his lips and the clerk didn't say a word. That done and with Mike in place, Blair took a deep breath and rose from behind the counter, his hands away from his sides and in plain view.
"Uh, guys?"
The more intense gunman had already noticed his movement and was watching him, but that drew the attention of the fidgety one, who immediately brought his weapon to bear again on Blair. If he never looked at that end of a gun again, Sandburg thought giddily, it would be too soon, the thought gone just as quickly. The ball was in his court.
"Look, uh, my friend needs some help here. Would it be okay at least if I got some first aid stuff off the shelves? I took the Red Cross course last year and I think I--"
"Yeah, yeah, go," the calmer skinhead said impatiently, "Just stay in sight and don't forget we've got your friend here."
Yeah, like he could forget that. Sandburg nodded solemnly, easing around the counter with as non-threatening an expression as he could muster. He snagged one of the baskets by the counter as he went, his hands otherwise still empty and in plain view. The edgy gunman watched his every move until Blair disappeared into the aisle, where he breathed a sigh of relief.
Okay, first aid supplies were definitely on the list, and Blair picked up several packages of gauze as well as some ace bandages. Antibiotics would have to wait, and he didn't dare give Jim anything to drink without knowing what damage the bullet had done inside his abdomen. But maybe he could at least provide some relief. Blair added a bottle of bottled water from a display at the end of the row.
What else could he use? If he went through several aisles, he'd attract attention to himself and the gunmen would wonder what else he was getting besides first aid things. Blair scanned the non-food stuff row, eyes lighting on hairspray. That would do. It was added to the basket, along with a box of matches and, after a second thought, another bottle of water.
All right, shopping was over. Now it was time for execution and some split-second timing. Blair's heart hammered in his chest, adrenalin with no place to go. Did Jim feel like that when a situation was going down? He never seemed to give sign of it, but perhaps adrenalin heightened his senses in some kind of battle-mode...
Blair caught himself before he followed that tangent too far. As interesting as it was, he couldn't afford the distraction. Jim would love that he'd finally found a situation in which his ideas and theories were inappropriate, but thought of the detective was sobering. Jim wouldn't be thinking anything at all if Blair didn't end this soon and get him some professional help.
He considered carrying out his plan right there in the aisle, but there were too many variables he didn't know there and it would be too out in the open. With an inward sigh, Blair headed back to the counter at the front of the store.
"Let me see whatcha got."
The nervous voice made him tense, and Blair forced nonchalance with considerable effort. He stood as casually as he could as the gunman came up close behind him and rifled through his basket.
"Hairspray? What d'ya need hairspray for?"
"It has alcohol in it. Antiseptic, sterilizing, you know," Blair improvised, thinking fast on his feet. It was incredibly lame, but then, the two trenchcoats hadn't exactly displayed superior intelligence. Come to think of it, he should have grabbed a bottle of alcohol to try to sterilize the wound, but then, maybe the shock of that would be too much for Jim, and it would have made any excuses that much harder to sell.
"Whatever." The gunman lost interest, giving Blair a shove toward the counter that almost made the anthropologist trip. Blair went gratefully, dropping to his knees beside the two others.
"How is he?" He checked as he asked, but Jim seemed much the same, still out, heartbeat maybe a little faster.
"I dunno -- he didn't move or anything." Mike's voice fell to a whisper. "You a cop, too?"
"Or something," Blair muttered. Boy, Jim would have a good laugh at the idea. But what was one fish-out-of-the-water anthropologist to do when his partner-the-detective got himself injured? Or even better, what was a Guide to do when his Sentinel was hurt?
Blair quickly unpacked his supplies, shoving one of the bottles of water at Mike.
"Here, pour all of this in a puddle right there," he pointed, "at the end of the counter. And stay out of sight."
The kid's hands were shaking and he frowned in confusion but, to his credit, did what he was told, taking the bottle and working at the seal around it.
Blair nodded to himself as he dumped out the rest of the stuff and ripped open the gauze packages. Pulling off the apron that he'd packed against Jim's wound would be foolish, probably starting the bleeding all over again, but Blair gently undid the tied apron and removed it. Keeping pressure with one hand, he packed the gauze on top of the second soaked apron, then one-handedly struggled to wrap an ace bandage around to keep everything in place. Mike joined him a moment later, and together they finished the job, pinning the end of the bandage into place. There. It wasn't the nicest job he'd ever seen and the aprons were hardly sterile, but it was the best they could do under the conditions.
The puddle was exactly where he'd instructed the kid to make it, Blair noted next with approval. Almost time. But first, he quickly soaked one of the remaining squares of gauze with water from the other bottle, running it over the detective's lips and trickling a little inside the slack mouth. Ellison's mouth moved a little, reacting to the wetness, and Blair almost let himself smile. It was too early to think about success, but he could hope. At the moment, it was all he had.
Now or never. A few terse words to Mike outlined the gist of what he planned, and the kid nodded, still hesitant but gaining courage as he went. Then Blair said a brief prayer and stuck his head above the counter.
"Hey, listen, I think my friend is dying. Look at him! We've gotta do something here, man!" The edge of hysteria in his voice was only half-faked. "Please, I need some help with him."
Two uncertain faces turned to stare at him. The cooler one waved him off with one hand. "Shut up. You deal with it."
"I can't, man, I'm telling you, he's dying! C'mere and see!" Blair fervently hoped Jim didn't hear him.
Hesitation, then the other trenchcoat stepped a little closer. "I thought you said you knew first aid!"
"I do, but he's got a bullet in the back -- the Red Cross doesn't cover stuff like that. Please, you gotta help!"
The guy had no intention of helping, that much Blair knew, but fascination with the horrible was a universal trait of humanity. The edgy gunman came closer, gun at ready but his eyes on Jim, not where he was stepping, as he rounded the counter.
Hands behind his back, Blair flicked on a lighter snagged from the counter.
The skinhead's foot hit the puddle and he was slipping before he could stop himself, feet flying up in almost cartoon fashion.
His partner at the door reacted immediately, rushing up to the counter's other side. Blair was listening for the footsteps, his eyes on Mike as the kid banged a clipboard soundly over the dazed gunman's head, putting him out like a light. When the second man's steps were close enough, Blair shot to his feet, already spraying the hairspray at the gunman as he brought the lighter around to connect with the alcohol-based fluid.
Even Mr. Experience didn't expect a homemade blowtorch. He fell back in shock, barely missing being singed, his gun clattering to the ground in the momentary confusion. And then Blair dropped the spraycan and pulled Jim's service revolver.
"Don't even think about it."
The man clearly was, but he wasn't stupid enough to try. Furious eyes stared back at Sandburg, but he didn't move.
"Kick the gun away with one foot," Blair continued, trying to remember everything Jim usually said.
The man complied, the gun skittering away to halfway across the front of the store.
Blair didn't dare pull his eyes away, but he turned his head enough to call over his shoulder, "Mike, slide the other gun over there, too." There was the sound of metal skidding on tile again. "How's the other guy?"
"Out." There was definitely a note of pleasure in the clerk's voice, one that Blair could heartily relate to. It was just beginning to sink in: they had done it.
"Go out and tell the cops it's okay to come in, Mike, all right? Just make sure you keep your hands up at first. And tell them we need an ambulance."
Mike scrambled to his feet behind Blair, sidling out around one felon and then skirting the other as he willingly made for the door.
In another minute, it was over.
Uniforms began pouring inside, collecting the guns and the still-out gunman, checking on their fallen fellow officer, securing the store. Without Jim to vouch for him, Blair wasn't unequivocally cleared of involvement in the robbery, but the clerk's corroboration and his observer ID did grant him enough benefit of the doubt to allow him to stay with Jim, under supervision.
That was all Blair asked for. His hands were shaking, heart numb at the thought of what he'd just faced and what was still to come; it was all he could do to sit there with his unconscious friend's head in his lap, talking absolute nonsense to Jim because that was the only thing that did make sense.
Time dragged on, his impatience growing at the absence of an ambulance. But his frustrated question surprised him with the answer that it had only been 15 minutes since the shot that hit Jim had alerted a police cruiser just pulling up in the parking lot to the fact that something was wrong. It had seemed so very much longer, but that explained why the hostage negotiation team hadn't arrived yet to try to bargain with the gunmen, why the ambulance was still on its way, why the trenchcoats hadn't taken some kind of action. A whole drama, a whole nightmare, played out in 15 minutes. It boggled Blair's overloaded mind.
The paramedics arrived, treating Jim where he lay and not trying to separate Blair from him, for which the anthropologist was deeply grateful. His need to be with Ellison was the one thing he was sure of at the moment. Before long, they were both in the ambulance, his fingers wrapped around his partner's wrist, feeling the too-fast heartbeat just as he knew Jim monitored his when the Sentinel was worried about him. And then they were at the hospital, Jim finally whisked away from him, and the real waiting began.
Police officers were part of the "family" of hospital staff, firefighters, and rescue workers, and were treated as such. A private waiting room was made available to them, and nurses, doctors, and orderlies stopped by to either check on Jim's condition or give them updates, and to see if they could help with anything.
That was Blair's first surprise. The second was that in this setting, "partner" granted rights and privileges akin to a spouse or blood relative. Even as the waiting room filled with cops, doctors spoke first to him and to Simon beside him, and the other officers gave him space with sympathetic respect.
It was a strange place to be. With Jim's fate still uncertain despite successful surgery, everything already had a distanced, unreal aspect to it, the lingering effect of emotional shock and trauma. Being deferred to by a roomful of tough street cops fit right into the dreamlike quality of the situation.
But still, there was an oddness to the whole thing even Blair's overwhelmed mind could appreciate. Somewhere over the past two years, he'd stopped being a complete civilian, finding a unique niche of his own in the Cascade PD. And yet even that role had been dependent on Jim, on his relation to Jim. Maybe he wasn't a complete civilian anymore, but he wasn't attached to the department, either, not without Jim as his link. At the same time, none of his fellow police officers had ever gotten as close to the detective as Blair had, that much he was certain of.
Sometimes the anthropologist didn't know exactly where that left him then, and he was pretty sure Jim didn't know any better than he. But here he was, and never more keenly feeling his bastard state than now, in a waiting room packed full of cops, waiting to hear if the one person his whole precarious situation rested on would still be there for him.
And then the thought of Jim lying on the floor, hurt, bleeding, unconscious, cut in, and nothing else mattered at all to Blair except that his best friend live.
The thoughts chased each other around and around in Sandburg's head in a vicious circle until he thought his head would explode with the pressure. He reached up tiredly to massage his forehead. Funny, that he should be the one losing his control without his Sentinel around to balance him.
"Steady, Sandburg," a cigar-roughened voice spoke up next to him, words to go with the large hand that gripped his shoulder. "Jim'll be fine."
Blair glanced sideways through a layer of curls at the captain, who sat next to him just as he had nearly since Blair had first arrived at the hospital. For all his arguments and posturing, Simon Banks was one of those Blair considered his true friends, and the captain didn't seem interested in his usual pretense of annoyance at Blair, either. This time they were two friends waiting to hear about a third, and the anthropologist's heart lightened a little at the thought. It was too easy to forget sometimes that he wasn't as isolated as he thought.
For that matter, there was a lot to be thankful for. Joel Taggert had come by while Jim had been in surgery, and at Simon's urging, had been the one to take Blair's statement. It was not an experience Sandburg wanted to repeat anytime soon, relating in detail how Jim had been injured and his own helplessness, but the black man had been as gentle as possible, relaxing Blair with his quiet encouragements and praise.
And Blair suspected that Joel had leaked a little of the incident to some of the others, too, because the atmosphere of the little waiting room had changed after that. Whereas before the other officers had given him the place due to the partner of a wounded cop, now there was genuine respect in their eyes, as if he'd the right to be among them. Even those who had once grumbled about his place at Jim's side regarded him differently now.
Blair couldn't help but notice the change and appreciated it all, honestly. But if and until Jim was all right, he couldn't care less.
The hand on his shoulder squeezed once, drawing his attention again, and he shoved his hair aside to look questioningly at the captain.
"It's time again if you want to see him," Banks said quietly.
That was all Blair needed to hear. Those ten minutes every hour were what he was living for, a chance to see for himself how Jim was doing, talk to him, try to elicit some reaction to drive the demons away that lingered at the edge of Sandburg's thoughts. He jumped up, forgetting all else as he walked out of the room and around the corner to the ICU ward, on the familiar path to cubicle seven.
The inside was a clutter of gadgetry, some of it large, chunky machines that had been rolled in, others attached to the pillar by the side of the bed. A sink and counter along the far side of the room was cluttered with vials and packages of gauze and emergency equipment. But the bed dominated the room, and on it the only form Blair saw anymore when he came in. Jim.
The detective lay on his stomach in deference to the wound on his back, and a blanket covered up the sight of the now-pure white gauze Blair had studied before. A breathing tube and two IVs were in place, the former to help ease the strain on the body as it healed, the latter providing antibiotics to fight the infection that had already set in, the doctor had said. And Jim was oblivious to it all.
Dr. York had been optimistic: the bullet had done considerable injury and the shock of blood loss had been severe, but the surgery had gone well, the fluid replaced, the infection slowly coming under control. It had been cautious hope, but hope nonetheless. If Jim beat the infection, and if he woke up and could come off the respirator, chances were he'd be fine.
Blair would believe it when he saw it.
Strange, he had never been this cynical before. Maybe it was the police personality he was dangerously close to developing, formed under danger and exposure to the hate and evil in mankind. Or maybe it was just the fact that no one should ever have to see someone they cared about like this, let alone bleeding on the dirty floor of a convenience store.
Blair shut his eyes, taking an unsteady breath. Then he circled the bed and pillar so he could see his friend's face, turned to one side to provide access for the breathing tube. Carefully he gathered up the lifeless, larger hand that was curled on top of the blanket, and held it between both of his own.
"Jim, I'm here again. I don't know why they have this ten-minute rule, unless maybe they think I'm gonna talk your ear off and you're not going to get any rest, but we both know how likely that is, huh?" Blair smiled gently. "Anyway, I think if my talking bothers you, that's a good thing, that means you're listening, right? Feel free to tell me to shut up anytime, I'm used to it. Simon and Joel both say hi, by the way. And you know that kid, Mike, the store clerk you did the John Wayne number for to save his life? He says thanks, too. He did pretty good once the shock wore off. You always get stuck with the civilians, don't you?" Blair grinned for real this time, remembering his own first days as a naive 'police observer'. "Hey, you remember when..." he launched into some embarrassing story that would have made Jim laugh to recall, hoping it would elicit some kind of effect before his ten minutes were up and he had to go back to worrying from afar.
Simon's car pulled up in front of the loft, and Blair stared at the building dumbly for a moment before realizing he was home. He shook his head, trying to clear some of the fog from it. "Uh, thanks for the ride, Cap'n." Blair swung the door open and got out.
"Blair."
The not-unkind voice made him turn back in surprise to see Banks leaning toward him, across the passenger seat.
"Get some sleep. They'll call if anything changes."
Sandburg nodded automatically. "Right. Thanks, Simon." He shut the door behind him before the captain could say anything else that Blair didn't want to hear.
He wasn't really mad at Simon, he reminded himself dully as he trudged inside and stood waiting for the elevator. Blair knew the captain's friendly order to go home and get some rest was for his own good, because the sun was already up and cotton had taken the place of his brain from the long night of stress and sleeplessness. The doctor had said that it was unlikely Jim's condition would change for some time, anyway. But it still bothered him more than he could say that he was coming home to sleep while Jim's life hung in the balance a few miles away at the hospital.
Home. Blair unlocked the door and stood just inside, gazing around the empty loft. Jim's home, shared with Blair. The anthropologist called it home, had come to view it as his own and no longer felt like an unwelcome temporary guest. But still, just like in the department, without Jim it felt like he didn't belong, like he had no connection to the place. One more piece of his life held on only by the glue of Ellison's presence.
Blair sighed, shutting the door behind him and crossing to his room. Well, it wasn't like Jim wasn't coming home, or like Blair had never spent a night alone in the loft before. Maybe he could fool himself into pretending Jim was just on an all-night stakeout and would be back in the morning.
He stripped off the bloody clothes, throwing them into the trash with a shudder of revulsion, then went to take a shower, all too aware he didn't need to conserve hot water this time. Then Blair flopped into bed, ready for the forgetfulness of sleep.
It didn't come. His exhaustion merely gave the bloody memories of the night before greater power to intrude on his thoughts. And Jim's absence in the loft just magnified the effect.
Blair made a face at the dark ceiling, resisting the childish urge that suddenly tempted him. Well... no one needed to know, did they? A little embarrassed regardless, he gathered up his blanket and pillow and climbed the steps to Jim's bedroom, to curl up on the larger bed. Jim's presence was stronger there than anywhere else in the loft, and Blair could use all the comfort he could get. Maybe it was a Guide thing, he rationalized it to himself.
Or maybe it was a just friendship thing.
A minute later, he was asleep.
Maybe Jim wasn't the connection, Blair reconsidered a few hours later.
After calling the hospital to learn there was no change and eating a breakfast strictly out of habit, Blair left the loft in the early afternoon to swing by the school. But even there the feeling of being out of place, of not belonging continued, souring even that last haven. Jim's absence couldn't be causing that, too, could it? Blair had found his place at the school long before he'd met the Sentinel, and he hardly connected Rainier with the detective. So why was he feeling so disconnected now?
Blair gathered the papers he needed, checked in with the people who were covering his classes and office hours, and left as soon as he possibly could, confused and disturbed by the strange feeling. Why here, indeed, at the school, at a place Jim rarely ventured and wasn't a part of? It didn't make any sense. Not like much did since the night before.
Resigned, Blair left it at that and went next to the station.
The feeling intensified there, but he'd expected as much. He was beginning to feel incomplete, handicapped without the usual presence at his side. People even looked at him oddly in the precinct halls, as if he looked as lopsided as he felt. Maybe he did.
Again, there were just a few things to drop off and Simon to check in with, and then he was out of there as fast as he could manage, relieved to go. Sandburg rarely was at the station without Jim and it always felt strange when he was, let alone now.
Then, finally, it was back to the hospital, where his heart had drawn him all along.
Jim was doing better, a little steadier, and the staff relaxed the ten minute rule, letting him go right in. Blair didn't argue. He stopped momentarily by the waiting room to say hi to Joel and then slipped gratefully into cubicle seven, to his usual spot by Jim's bed. After studying the face of his friend once more for any change, Blair reclaimed the detective's hand.
And everything snapped back into place, making sense again.
Blair blinked, understanding beginning to dawn. So it was Jim, after all. Not because he validated Blair's place in the station or in the loft, nor because without him Blair had no place of his own, but simply because he was that important a part of the anthropologist's life. Simon, Joel, Naomi if she were there -- a few other factors in his life still connected and made sense, but everything else just didn't seem real or important when Jim Ellison, best friend, roommate, Sentinel, partner, was fighting for his life.
Sandburg swallowed the wad of emotion lodged in his throat and gently petted the hand in his own. "Okay, Jim, I think I got the message here. I'm not a cop and I'll leave that stuff to you next time, all right? No argument there. But I'm still your partner, and that means I need you back, you got that? I did my part now, so it's time to do yours, okay?"
Jim stirred, just a little bit, but Blair lit up with cautious excitement. "Jim? Can you hear me? C'mon, big guy, gimme some kind of sign here..."
Some definite restlessness now. Blair massaged the detective's hand, dropping his other hand to the bristle-short hair. "Jim? Hey, buddy, you can do it, just open your eyes for me."
And Jim did. Like it was the hardest thing he'd ever done, and only halfway, but he did. The drugged blue eyes looked at Blair, slid off, returned again, and then there was the slightest return pressure against his fingers as Jim's hand weakly curled around his own. The detective's eyes finally sank shut again out of sheer lack of energy to keep them open, it seemed, but Blair wouldn't have traded even that much for the world.
Relief and joy stung his eyes, and this time the emotions were too thick to swallow, but words weren't necessary anymore. Blair just crouched next to the bed, unabashedly wet-cheeked and with a grin threatening to split his face, and let his world right itself completely.
"...and it made a sort of blowtorch. Nearly blew the guy away--"
Jim was staring at him with a look of half-disbelief. "How did you think of all that?"
Blair shrugged. "Uh, a MacGyver episode I saw. Anyway, the guy pretty much fell over from the shock, and dropped his gun, and then I pulled out yours--"
"Whoa, what were you doing with my gun?" Jim's stern look lost something when he was still pale and half-reclining on his side in a hospital gown, but it was enough to make his partner flush.
Blair cringed a little into his chair. "Well, uh, I sorta borrowed it right before I called the first guy over. I figured I'd only have a second to startle him and I had to be ready. I wasn't going to shoot the guy, Jim." He spread his hands innocently, knowing he wasn't fooling his friend one bit.
Jim was shaking his head. "If you point a gun at somebody, you have to be--"
"--ready to use it. I know," Blair finished, somewhat more subdued. "I didn't have any choice, Jim. I would've done what I had to." That was really the bottom line. He'd done what he'd had to do.
And Jim knew it. The detective cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable with something quite other than his physical state. "Sandburg... what you did was pretty risky. You're not a cop..."
Coming now, here, that hurt more than Blair could have thought. His gaze dragged to the floor, taking his mood with it.
"...but I think you even impressed Simon on this one, kid. Probably saved my life, too. Smart thinking." Solemnly, Jim added, "Thanks, partner."
Blair glanced up, startled. Partner? For the sake of the hospital staff and the bullpen, maybe, perhaps even with Simon, but coming from Jim...
Jim grinned affectionately at him. "Just don't let it go to your head."
Too late for that. Blair knew his eyes were shining and he had to look as delighted as he felt, but who cared? Jim had called him 'partner' before, but never like that. Not like he was recognizing that Blair had his own rights, his own place, equality. And that he had as much responsibility for Jim as the Sentinel always showed for him. It was a recognition of Blair's belonging.
"So, uh," Blair grinned, feeling like he'd just been given a gold medal. "Simon was impressed, huh? Does this mean I get a badge soon? Maybe I should get one of those police radios installed in the Volvo, what do you think? And -- oh, that reminds me, I was thinking in the store about adrenalin's affect on your senses; I think we should run a few tests on that, see if it increases your sensory abilities--"
Ellison groaned, pulling the blanket up over his shoulder as quickly as he could manage and shutting his eyes as if to block out Blair's enthusiastic rambling. But he was smiling a little, Blair could see it.
Blair was, too, the joy uncontainable. "It would make sense -- uh, no pun intended -- to find out how it affects you so you know what to expect next time you're in a critical situation. Speaking of which, we should work on this lie-detection stuff some more..."
The End