Title: Angel on My Shoulder
Author: Nancy Taylor
Author Email: nat1228@comcast.net
Rating: PG
Status: Complete
Archive: Yes to CL, WWOMB, Fries
Author's website: https://www.squidge.org/~nat1228/TSgen.htm

Written: May-July 2000
Revised and expanded: January, 2002
Previously published by Agent With Style

Disclaimer: Pet Fly and Paramount own the copyright to The Sentinel and its characters. This piece of fan fiction was written solely for the love of the characters and to share freely with other fans. No profit is being made from the posting of this story.

Episode related: Warriors

Warnings: lyrics

Author's notes: Many thanks to Becky for the use of parts of her episode transcripts for "Warriors." You made my job much easier.

Thanks also to my intrepid betas: Allison and Heather-Anne, for the original version, and Heather-Anne and Kimberly for this revised and expanded version. Couldn't do it without you!

Summary: Blair's seizures intensify.

ANGEL ON MY SHOULDER
by Nancy Taylor
nat1228@comcast.net

'Cause I'm not angry, I'm not crying,
I'm just in over my head.
And you could be the angel that stayed on my shoulder,
When all of the other angels left.

=====||=====

"I'm heading out. Are you coming?"

"Can you do without me today?" The anthropologist looked up from where he was hunched over his laptop, preparing a lesson plan for school. "I've got some tests to grade and this damn lesson plan to work up."

"You sure you're gonna be okay here alone?"

"Jim, I'm fine. You don't have to babysit. Go on. Get outta here!"

Jim smiled. With his glasses firmly in place and his hair hanging loose around his face as he bent over his computer, Blair looked ready to tackle hell or high water . . . or migraine headaches, if need be. Determined not to worry, Jim turned and walked out the door.

~~oO0Oo~~

Several hours later, with graded papers strewn around him and his computer screen screaming for his attention, Blair stopped to rub his temples. Damn! He couldn't afford a headache now. He had too much left to do.

Reaching up, he rubbed at his aching temples with his fingers. Please, don't let me get one of those freaking migraines now!/ He stood and headed for the kitchen, intent on finding one of his herbal cures. Rummaging through the cupboards, he finally settled on brewing some chamomile tea. Nothing was going to touch this headache, but perhaps the hot drink would help relax him.

He knew he ought to go to bed. Fighting this wasn't going to make it any easier. He pulled off his glasses, digging knuckles into his aching eyes. Man, this really sucks! He trailed back out to the couch, mug of tea in hand. At the very least, he needed to save his work and shut down the computer. Sitting on the couch, he sipped at his tea before placing the mug on the table and turning to his laptop.

Flicking a finger over the glidepad, he stopped the screensaver, and revealed the active document on the screen. As he opened the dropdown menu to "save," he froze, unable to continue. Oblivious to what was going on around him, Blair's eyes rolled up and he fell to the floor, hitting his head on the coffee table as he went down. The laptop, and a considerable number of papers, went with him. When the convulsions stopped, he lay deathly still.

~~oO0Oo~~

"Ellison! . . . Jim?" Simon stood at his lead detective's desk, trying to get the man's attention. A firm hand on Jim's shoulder brought him back from the edge of a sensory zone-out. "What's going on here?"

"I don't know, Simon. I've just got this feeling something isn't right. Sandburg was awfully anxious to get rid of me this morning." Jim shuffled some of the papers on his desk, then looked up at his Captain. "That seizure he had yesterday scared the crap out of me."

Simon nodded his understanding. "You couldn't get him to go see his doctor?"

"Hell, no. He seems to think it isn't any big deal. He's had them before, when he was a kid." Jim brushed a hand across his close-cropped hair in exasperation.

"Why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off? Go home. Check up on him," Simon suggested.

"He'd kill me. He doesn't like to be babied, Simon. I've got to respect that. He's a grown man. He can take care of himself."

"So, call. Give him some line about picking up something for dinner on the way home."

Jim shook his head. "He'd know I'm checking up on him."

"Let him know, then!" Simon insisted. "Isn't that what friends are for?"

"Yeah," Jim sighed, nodding slowly. "Something's just not right." He picked up the phone and dialed home. After three rings, the answering machine picked up. "Simon, I've got to go," he said, replacing the receiver in its cradle. "Sandburg's not answering the phone."

~~oO0Oo~~

Taking the stairs three at a time, Jim raced up to the loft. Nervous hands fumbled with the key, taking precious extra seconds to open the locked door. He entered the apartment like a charging bull. "Hey, Sandburg! You home?" he shouted. "Answer me, dammit!" The utter silence in the loft was unnerving.

Stopping to take a deep breath, he centered himself. He hadn't even taken time to look around. The sound of a softly beating heart brought his attention to living room area, and the clutter around one of the couches. Running across the room, he knelt beside his fallen friend. "Damn! It happened again, didn't it, Sandburg? Why didn't you say something?"

A bleeding gash on Blair's forehead and blood on the table were mute testimony to what had happened. Dialing "911" on his cell phone, Jim called for an ambulance. "We're not playing around anymore. You're going to the hospital," he told the unconscious man.

He lifted the computer from the anthropologist's chest and gathered up the scattered papers. By the time the paramedics arrived, he had already performed a cursory exam, convincing himself that Blair had nothing more than a bad concussion.

The medics performed their own exam, peppering Jim with questions as they checked Blair's vital signs. They loaded the young man onto a gurney and wheeled him down the hall to the elevator.

Jim followed them out, climbing into the truck and staying close behind the ambulance as it sped to the hospital.

~~oO0Oo~~

Jim paced the hospital lounge with the nervous grace of a predatory animal. When the doctor finally appeared, he nearly pounced on the man.

"James Ellison?"

"Yes. How's Blair, Doctor. . . ?"

"Freeman." He shook Jim's hand in greeting. "Your friend is doing fine. He has a concussion, but nothing too serious. You mentioned he's had seizures recently?"

"Yeah," Jim replied. "He told me he was diagnosed with epilepsy as a kid, but hadn't had any seizures for years. It came as quite a shock."

"I can imagine. I'd like to hold him overnight for observation and to run some tests, but there's no reason he can't go home in the morning. I'd like to put him on Klonopin for a trial period; see how he responds. It's an anticonvulsant," he added by way of explanation.

"Yeah, I know," Jim answered distractedly. "Anything. . . . Just get these damn seizures under control."

"That's what we're trying to do, Mr. Ellison," Dr. Freeman reassured him. "Would you like to see Mr. Sandburg?"

"Yes. Please." He followed as the doctor led him to a room down the hall.

"Don't stay too long. He's drowsy and needs his rest."

"Thanks, Doctor." Jim pushed the door open to the dim room, dialing up his senses to hear the reassuring beat of Blair's heart, and the soft susurration of his breath. Walking over to the bed, he brushed stray strands of wild hair from the high forehead, carefully avoiding the large bandage on the left side.

Blair opened his eyes at the touch. "Jim?"

"Yeah, I'm here. How're you feeling?"

"Head hurts."

"Why doesn't that surprise me? You whacked yourself a good one when you fell."

"Did I. . . ?"

"Have another seizure?" Jim finished for him. "Yeah, I think so. You knocked yourself unconscious when you fell off the couch."

"Ouch."

Jim chuckled. "I just can't leave you alone, can I?"

Blair turned his head away from Jim and grimaced. "Sorry. I didn't mean to worry you. I really screwed up, didn't I?"

"You bet your sweet ass, you did! If you'd gone to the doctor like I asked, maybe this wouldn't have happened."

The younger man winced, hating to be caught in the wrong. "It won't happen again," he whispered. "I guess I just tried to do too much, too soon. Forgive me?"

"For scaring a year off my life?" Jim sighed. "Yeah. Just don't do this to me anymore, okay?"

"'Kay." Blair's eyes fluttered and closed. Jim brushed a few long strands of hair from Blair's forehead and smiled fondly at his sleeping guide.

~~oO0Oo~~

Dr. Freeman pressed a bottle into Blair's hand. "This is the lowest dosage available. Take one tablet, three times daily with food. I want to see you in a week to run some tests, and see how you're doing on the medication."

Blair screwed up his face, pushing the bottle back toward the doctor. "I prefer not to take prescription medications. I like more natural remedies. Thanks, anyway."

"This isn't negotiable," Jim stated, picking up the bottle and putting it in his pocket. "I'll see to it that he takes them, Doctor."

"But, Jim. . . ."

"No 'buts', Blair. I'm tired of worrying about you. You're going to do this for me, for us."

"He's a damned dictator, you know," Blair addressed the doctor, tilting his head toward his partner. "Do this. Don't do that."

"Sounds like just what the doctor ordered." The physician chuckled. "Take care, Blair. And take the medication. I'll see you in a week."

~~oO0Oo~~

Blair balanced the small pill in his hand, reluctant to swallow it.

Jim reached across the dinner table to rest a reassuring hand on the younger man's arm. "Take it, Blair. You promised."

"But, Jim . . . they make me so tired," Blair sighed. "I hate taking them!"

"Then I'll tuck you into bed, and you can rest." Jim patted the arm under his hand and held Blair's defiant gaze.

"I don't want to rest, dammit! I've got things I need to get done! If I don't get these papers graded before tomorrow afternoon, there's gonna be hell to pay." Blair pulled away from the patronizing hand.

"And you won't be worth anything to the University or to me if you're laid out with another seizure," Jim argued. "You promised, and I'm going to see to it that you keep that promise."

Looking up into determined blue eyes, Blair grimaced and popped the pill into his mouth, following it with a quick swallow of water. "Happy?"

"Yes. Very." Jim smiled, trying to dispel the bad feelings that had come between them.

The grad student pushed his chair back and stood. Without another word, he turned his back on the older man and marched into the living area, plopping unceremoniously onto the couch. Picking up a pile of papers, Blair settled his glasses on his nose, picked up a pen, and began to grade papers.

Jim watched him go, feeling slightly defeated. It was going to be difficult to monitor the stubborn anthropologist, but he was determined to see to it that Blair took his medication on schedule. It was his night to do dishes, so he cleared the table quickly and set to work. Once finished, he sat on the end of the couch opposite his roommate and turned on the TV. Adjusting the volume down so as not to disturb Blair, he settled in to watch the evening news.

Blair didn't even look up from the papers he was grading as Jim sat down.

Trying to keep an eye on his friend, without intruding into his privacy, Jim allowed the TV to go from the news into the evening sitcoms without so much as a blink. Noticing, after about an hour, that the younger man's head was drooping, he finally spoke. "Hey, Chief. . . ."

Blair looked up, bleary-eyed.

Jim reached over and pulled the glasses from their perch on Blair's nose. Folding them, he placed them gently on the table. "I think it's time you head for bed," he suggested, getting no protest from his actions.

Blair dug his knuckles into his eyes, which were already looking bloodshot and tired. "Damn pills," was all he said as he rose and shuffled into his bedroom, closing the French doors behind him.

A week later:

"So, Blair, how are things going for you?" Doctor Freeman asked.

"Great."

"And you're still taking the Klonopin three times daily?"

"Jim sees to that." Blair laughed.

The doctor scribbled some notes on a pad. "Any problems?"

"Just the usual side effects you warned me about: drowsiness, a little irritability. Nothing I haven't been able to deal with."

"And there have been no more seizures?"

"No." Blair's answer was short and to the point, its very conciseness a clue to the doctor that not all was well.

Sighing, the physician eyed his patient. "I can't help you if you're not going to tell me what's wrong."

"I don't like taking the Klonopin. I told you that already," Blair responded sullenly.

"Besides your aversion to medication in general, is there anything about this particular medication that's bothering you?"

"I'm tired all the time," Blair confessed. "It seems like every time I turn around I have to take another damn pill, and the next thing I know, I'm taking a nap!"

"I can write you a prescription to counteract the drowsiness," the doctor suggested.

"No thanks. I am not taking anything else!" Blair slid off the exam table and headed for the door.

"Remember, Blair, you have to keep taking the medication," the doctor admonished. "This isn't something that gets better with time."

"Yeah, right." The disgust was evident in the young man's voice.

"I mean it, Blair. This isn't some game we're playing," Dr. Freeman told his argumentative patient. "You have to keep taking the Klonopin."

"I said I would, and I will," Blair said sullenly.

"Okay, then." Doctor Freeman patted Blair's shoulder. "In that case, I shouldn't need to see you again, unless there are any new problems. You should make an appointment with your regular doctor for two months from now for a med check. Otherwise, you're free and clear."

"Thanks."

"Take care of yourself, Blair."

"Thanks, Doctor," Jim added, as he placed his palm in the small of Blair's back and guided the younger man out of the office.

"You can be such a pain in the butt!" Jim commented, once they were safely out of earshot.

"You should know," Blair spat back.

"C'mon . . . lighten up," Jim pleaded.

A heavy sighed expelled from the lungs of the man walking next to him. "I'm sorry, Jim. I've been a real ass lately, haven't I?"

"I'm taking the Fifth on that one," Jim chuckled.

To be continued in Mark of the Shaman...

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