The slash version was previously published by AngelWings Press. This version is GEN.

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.

Author's Notes: ASL is a language unto itself, with its own grammar and usage rules. The interpretation of ASL in this story should be considered English constructions, and not literal translations.

0-0-0-0-0 indicates a major scene break
~@~@~@~ indicates a minor scene break or change in point-of-view

Acknowledgments: To Kimberly, for her fantastic beta help, and to my anonymous betas at AngelWings Press who all helped to make this a better story.

Artwork by the incredibly talented Virginia Sky. Thanks so much, Virginia!!

Rating: PG

Warnings: Post TSbyBS, Blair as cop; permanent disability

Summary: A permanent disability doesn't necessarily mean permanently disabled.

Comments welcome and appreciated at nat1228@comcast.net.

"Blair, you've got me worried."

The newly-minted detective looked up from where he was stirring disinterestedly through his morning's eggs. "I'm fine, Jim."

"You don't look fine. Are you feeling sick again?" Jim had watched a slow disintegration in his new partner's physical and mental health as he attended the police academy. Now that he had been on the job for almost a month as a real badge-wielding, gun-toting cop, Jim had thought his health would improve.

"I think I must have a case of mono," Blair sighed. "Rachael Hobbs was diagnosed just before graduation."

"That cute little cadet that kept whipping your butt on the obstacle course?"

"Yeah, well, I let her. It wouldn't have looked good for me to graduate top of the class," Blair smiled grimly.

"Why not? You deserved it," Jim argued.

"Jim . . . we've beat that subject to death. Let it rest in peace. I had a hard enough time being accepted, you know that." Blair put his fork down, and pushed away from the table. "I need to get ready for work."

Jim gathered the dishes, scraping the uneaten eggs into the disposal. He was worried about his partner, who had been ill off and on for the past three months. It just wasn't like Blair to get sick, not this often. When he finally emerged from the bathroom, Jim blocked his path. "I want you to go to the doctor."

"Jiiimmm . . ." Blair sighed. "There's nothing a doctor can do. I just need to get some rest."

"Which you're not going to do coming to work with me. I want you to stay home and make an appointment to see Dr. Stuart." Jim stood his ground in front of his stubborn partner.

"Look, Jim. How many times do I have to say this before I get through that thick cranium of yours? I - DON'T - NEED - TO - SEE - A - DOCTOR!"

"At least have that sore throat checked out. You're going to develop a case of laryngitis at this rate."

Blair's face softened as he heard the note of concern in his friend's voice. Laying a hand on Jim's forearm, he tried to reassure him. "I'm not going to be losing my voice, Jim. It's just mono--a bit of a nuisance, but nothing serious."

"Please, Blair?" Jim pleaded. "Call the doctor. If you don't, I will."

"It means that much to you?" Blair's heart warmed at the thought.

Jim reached up to cup one cheek with the palm of his hand. "Yeah, it does."

"All right, then," Blair agreed.

0-0-0-0-0

"How long have you had a sore throat?" Dr. Stuart asked. He removed the tongue depressor, finally allowing Blair to speak.

"On and off, maybe three months," Blair admitted.

"Why didn't you come in to see me earlier?"

Blair managed to look slightly embarrassed. "I figured it was just mono, and would go away on its own, eventually."

"Have you been exposed?" the doctor asked.

"Yeah, about three weeks ago."

"Well, three weeks isn't too long for a case of mono, but three months is. Your throat is awfully inflamed." He paused to let the implications sink in. "I'd like to schedule you for a laryngoscopy. It's an outpatient procedure, a bit uncomfortable, but nothing you can't handle." He stood and crossed the room, opening a drawer and pulling out an instrument that looked like a long tube with a light on the end. "I'll put one of these down your throat to give myself a better look. Depending on what I find, I may want to take a biopsy, too."

Blair swallowed, although the action caused some discomfort. "Is that really necessary? I mean, it's just mono."

"Considering what you've told me, and what I've observed, I don't want to take any chances. Go tell Patricia to schedule you for tomorrow morning." The doctor packed the instrument away and turned back to his patient. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, but it's better to be safe than sorry."

0-0-0-0-0

"What did the doctor say?" Jim quizzed, when Blair walked in and threw himself into his chair with an air of annoyance.

"He doesn't think it's mono," Blair grumbled, shuffling through his paperwork.

Jim nodded in agreement and plowed on. "Did he say what he thought it was?"

"No, he didn't say what he thought it was," Blair mimicked back, sarcastically. "He wants me back tomorrow morning. He's going to stick a light down my throat to get a better look."

"Sounds serious." Jim studied his partner, noticing a frailty he hadn't seen before.

"It's probably nothing, okay? I don't want to talk about it." Blair shuffled through a stack of report folders.

"It's all right to be nervous," Jim whispered across the short space between their desks.

Blair turned, giving his partner a weak smile and a nod, before burying himself in the pile of paperwork on his desk.

0-0-0-0-0

The next morning found Blair flitting around the loft, burning off excess energy. He paced from one end of the room to the other, examining objects on bookshelves, and straightening piles of magazines. Jim smiled indulgently, knowing his partner was venting his nervousness over this morning's doctor visit.

"I'm coming with you," Jim stated, when Blair passed close enough to notice him.

"I don't need you coming along to hold my hand!" the younger man snapped back.

"I know you don't," Jim said quietly. "I just want to be there, okay?"

A look of relief spread across the tense features. "Yeah, okay, Jim. Thanks. Sorry I've been such an ass lately."

"You're no harder to live with than I am, sometimes," Jim said, accepting the apology.

Blair flopped himself into the nearest chair, suddenly feeling burned out and tired. "You don't deserve to be treated like that," he sighed, wiping a hand down his face. "I'm scared, and I'm venting, and you've become my punching bag. I'm surprised that you manage to put up with me."

"I've put up with worse, believe me." Jim patted Blair's shoulder reassuringly. "Ready to leave?"

"As ready as I'm going to get," Blair sighed, rising.

0-0-0-0-0

"Just try to relax," Dr. Stuart instructed, readying the laryngoscope. "Here we go."

Blair opened his mouth wide and exhaled, trying to find his center and relax. He shifted his gaze off the doctor to Jim, who had insisted on being in the room during the test. As the instrument slid down his throat, his gag reflex kicked in and he began to choke.

Jim was immediately at his side, rubbing his back. "It's okay. You're okay. You can do this," he whispered in Blair's ear.

"Just relax," the doctor coaxed. "We're almost there, not much farther now."

Blair took a couple of deep breaths through his nose, finding breathing difficult with the obstruction in his throat. He calmed marginally, and the gagging subsided.

The doctor studied the television screen which was displaying pictures from the small camera attached to the scope. He frowned. He picked up another instrument and turned back to his patient.

"I'd like to get a biopsy, Blair. There appears to be a small growth on your vocal cords, and I'd like to check it out."

"Is this going to hurt, Doctor?" Jim asked, knowing Blair would have, if he could.

"Just a little pinch," the doctor answered, threading the thin instrument down Blair's throat and snipping a tissue sample. Blair flinched slightly, and Jim resumed his soothing petting of the young man's back.

"All done." Dr. Stuart smiled. "Now exhale and hold, while I pull out the scope."

It was over in seconds. Blair sat, panting slightly, leaning against the solid support of the Sentinel who stood beside to him.

"What's next?" Jim asked, content to be his partner's voice.

"I'll send the tissue sample to the lab for testing. It generally takes three to four days for the test to come back. I'll call with the results as soon as I know anything."

"Thanks, Doctor." Jim helped Blair slide off the exam table, steadying him until he got some strength back into his wobbly legs.

"Blair, I want you to go home and rest," the doctor ordered. "Try to get some extra sleep, and eat something. I know it's difficult when your throat is so sore, but you need the nutrition."

"I'll see to it that he eats, Doctor," Jim assured the physician. "Come on, Blair, let's go home. I got Simon to give us both the day off."

0-0-0-0-0

Time seemed to telescope, then contract. Just when each day seemed to become an endless nightmare of waiting, the waiting was suddenly over. Blair jumped as his cell phone rang.

"Sandburg," he croaked into the tiny mouthpiece.

Jim's head snapped up, and he watched his partner go deathly pale. Rising, he crossed the small space to stand beside his friend.

"Uh huh. Yeah, okay, Dr. Stuart. Yes, I understand. Good-bye." Blair looked up at Jim. "He wants me to come down to the office right away."

"Grab your coat, then. I'll let Simon know we're leaving." Jim stood, and headed toward the captain's office. When he returned, Blair was standing near the door, coat in hand.

"You don't have to come along, Jim."

~@~@~@~

Once they arrived at Dr. Stuart's office, they were immediately ushered inside. Blair settled cautiously in a chair in front of the doctor's desk. Jim stood behind him, a protective presence, with one hand resting on Blair's shoulder.

Dr. Stuart settled himself behind the desk and opened the file folder. He studied the contents again, briefly, before looking up and addressing his patient. "The biopsy was positive for malignancy," he intoned. "I'm very sorry, Blair. You have cancer of the larynx."

Blair sat still, shell-shocked into silence by the diagnosis.

"Where do we go from here?" Jim asked, filling the void with words.

"I'd like to admit Blair to the hospital for further tests," Dr. Stuart explained. "The results will dictate our choice of treatments."

"How soon?" Blair managed to croak out past the lump that had formed in his throat.

"The sooner, the better," Dr. Stuart said. "This afternoon would be good."

One week later:

"The tests we conducted last week confirm that your cancer has advanced to what we call Stage II. What started as cancer of your vocal cords, has now spread to the upper larynx. Fortunately, the lymph nodes appear to be clear, and the tumor is confined to a limited area." Dr. Stuart handed down the verdict, then, outlining the sentence, he continued, "We have a couple options here, but I do have to tell you I have a preference." He paused briefly, watching for a reaction. His patient sat in stunned silence, waiting for him to continue.

"Your first option is radiation therapy. This is not my treatment of choice in this case, considering how involved the cancer is. Unfortunately, in your case, Blair, you have a particularly aggressive tumor, and the chance of the cancer spreading if we don't do surgery immediately is high.

"My recommendation is a hemilaryngectomy, removal of your vocal cords and the upper larynx, in this case. I'd follow up the surgery with radiation treatments to inhibit return of the cancer."

Blair had grown progressively more pale as the doctor spoke. Finally, he stammered, "I'd . . . I'd lose . . . my voice. . . ?" Minute tremors shook his body as shock began to settle in.

"Yes," Dr. Stuart said, not without sympathy, "but there are alternatives that would allow you to speak. The simplest is called an 'electrolarynx'. It's a mechanical device that you can carry in your pocket. You press it against your neck, and it causes the diaphragm to vibrate, which produces a vibration in the throat that duplicates the vibrations of the vocal cords. It takes a bit of practice to use, but requires no special care. Its main drawback is a very mechanical sounding voice."

"I don't think I'd like that," Blair admitted. "I'd rather not be able to talk at all."

Dr. Stuart nodded in understanding. "I think the most palatable choice in your case would be a voice prosthesis. This is a small implant that can be done at the time of the surgery. It allows for more normal-sounding speech, but must be removed and cleaned periodically. Because of the location of the prosthesis in the throat, you'd have to come by the office to have it removed, cleaned and replaced--a minor price to pay for having a voice."

"What are the alternatives to surgery?" Jim asked, moving in to wrap an arm around Blair, supporting him.

"We could start out with radiation treatments to try and arrest the growth of the tumor. While that's successful in some cases, I don't think it's truly a feasible alternative for Blair," Dr. Stuart explained. "There's also chemotherapy, which is much harder on the patient, but has somewhat better results in killing the cancer cells. Lastly," he continued, "there's a radiation and chemo combination. Together, they might be able to shrink the tumor and bring it under control. However, there are a number of undesirable side effects to both, and no guarantee they could stop the cancer. Surgery might still be needed.

"The decision is Blair's," the doctor admitted, "but I'd still advise the surgery. It's a difficult decision. I don't expect you to make it here, Blair. Go home, think about it, and let me know. I'd prefer not putting off treatment for more than a week, though."

Blair braced himself against the arms of the chair he was seated in, and pushed up onto unsteady legs. He held out a hand to the doctor, who shook it solemnly. "Thanks, Dr. Stuart," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'll get back to you. Promise."

Jim put a hand on Blair's shoulder, guiding him out of the room. Once out of the building, Blair shook off the physical support, walking quickly to the truck, and slamming the door after settling into the seat.

The drive home was silent. Blair was braced against the passenger side window, staring out at the city flashing by. Once back at the loft, he stalked across the intervening distance to his room. Entering, he slammed the doors with enough force to rattle the glass.

Jim slowly advanced on the room, stopping outside and laying one hand on the doorframe. Leaning his forehead against a cool pane of glass, he muttered to himself, "Please, Chief, let me help." He stayed like that for a few more moments, before moving to the couch and picking up the phone.

"Hi, Simon," he said when the captain answered. "It's not good news. The doctor wants to perform surgery right away." He paused to listen to the exclamations from the other end of the line. "Yeah, but it's Blair's decision. He might go the chemotherapy route. . . . Yes, sir. No, sir," he answered the questions put to him in rapid fire succession. "Sir, I need some time off. . . . Yeah, thanks, Simon."

He hung up the phone, then did the unthinkable: he stretched out his hearing to eavesdrop on his friend. Blair was muttering under his breath, curses in several different languages, from what Jim could decipher. There was a rapid tapping of keys . . . he must be on the internet doing research.

As hard as it was, Jim was determined to mind his own business. This was Blair's decision, and he'd only offer a comment if requested to do so. Having made the decision, he got up and began rummaging through the refrigerator for ideas on what to fix for dinner. He was only mildly surprised when Blair stormed out of his room, grabbed his coat, and walked out of the loft without a word. Jim tracked his progress out of the building, listening as Blair's steps echoed down the sidewalk until he was out of hearing range.

By the time Blair returned, almost two hours later, Jim had the table set, and dinner ready to be served.

"Have a nice walk?" Jim began, conversationally, trying to avoid what he really wanted to discuss.

"Just needed some time alone to think," came the hoarse reply. Blair's voice was sounding less and less the way Jim remembered it. That, in itself, was frightening.

"Come to any decisions?" Jim struggled to keep a casual note to his tone.

Blair shrugged and sat at the table, looking up as Jim dished out the chicken casserole. "I want to live."

Jim nodded, and mumbled an agreement, waiting for the younger man to continue. When he was greeted by nothing but silence, he asked, "So, have you decided on the treatment?"

Blair nodded. His voice nearly broke as he said the word Jim dreaded, "Surgery."

Jim settled himself at the table and stirred his fork through his meal, weighing his words carefully. "I know I have no right to offer an opinion," he began, breaking his own vow not to do so unless asked. "After all, I'm not your brother, or your father. I'm just your partner, and your friend." He stopped, looking up from his plate to meet Blair's eyes across the table.

"Go on, Jim," Blair encouraged. "You know I'm always willing to at least listen to your opinions."

Jim cleared his throat, and tried again. "Have you really taken enough time to think this through? I mean, Dr. Stuart said you didn't have to decide right away."

"He said I had a week. That's not much time to weigh options, Jim," Blair pointed out.

"No, but it also doesn't mean you have to decide today."

"Jim," Blair's tone was one of reason and resignation. "There's no guarantee no matter what I choose, but surgery is the surest way to catch the cancer before it spreads. I want to live. I'm not ready to give up yet; there's still too much to do." And you need me, he added silently.

"I'm not trying to talk you out of it," Jim sighed, putting his fork down and pushing his plate away. "I think it's probably the best option. That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"It's going to be weird, you know?" Blair pushed away his unfinished dinner as well.

"What is?"

Blair rested his folded hands on the table, staring at them with a bowed head. When he looked up, he found Jim watching him intently. "Being without my voice. Not just temporarily, but forever. I'm having some trouble wrapping my mind around that."

"You and me, both," Jim replied, fervently. He covered Blair's hands with his own. "At least, with the implant, you'll be able to talk."

Blair looked up at Jim with weary eyes. "I don't think I want the implant right away," he admitted. "Maybe never."

"Why the hell not?" Jim exploded, surprised by Blair's reluctance.

"I think I just need some time," he said. "Time to come to terms with the cancer and the surgery, to get used to the idea of being without my voice."

"And just how long will this self-revelation take? How do you expect to communicate in the meantime?"

"I'll write notes. Whatever. I'm just not ready yet, okay? This whole deal is just a bit overwhelming at the moment." Blair closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to capture Jim's gaze. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm glad you're along for the ride."

"You bet your sweet ass, I am. You're not alone here. Remember that, okay?" Jim returned the look with as much determination as he could muster. "Whatever you need, just ask."

"Thanks, Jim. That means a lot." He looked down at their joined hands and sighed.

0-0-0-0-0

Blair packed his duffel bag with extra clothes; the pajamas his mother had given him, but he had never worn, a book, some journals and his laptop. When he walked out of his room, he looked like he was heading to his own execution, not to the hospital.

Well, Jim thought, maybe in a way, he was. And, perversely, Jim felt that he, himself, was the executioner. He hustled Blair out the door and down to the waiting truck, not knowing what to say, but wanting desperately to hear that precious voice one more time.

"Nice day," he started, slipping on sunglasses against the late October sun.

Blair stared silently out the window. Jim could see the small tremors shaking his arms and legs. Blair would never admit it, but he was scared. Needing to delay as long as possible, Jim decided to take the long way, down past the waterfront.

"Talk to me, Blair," he begged. "Please."

"What do you want me to say, Jim?" Even with all the emotions roiling through him, Blair could still manage sarcasm. "Do you want me to admit I'm scared? Yeah. Okay. I'm scared, scared shitless! The cancer is bad enough, but I can beat that. I'm going to be mute, Jim. Can you understand what that feels like? To know that I'm voluntarily giving up my voice, just so I can live?" Winding down, he leaned his head against the window, staring out at the passing scenery.

"I don't want this, either, but you're right," Jim admitted. "You're not ready to go, and I'm not ready to let you. We'll get through this, together, Blair. Remember what I said: you're not alone anymore."

0-0-0-0-0

The frail figure on the gurney lay quietly, waiting for the doctors to take him to his fate. His breathing was ragged with fear, but he refused to give in to the emotion. He squeezed Jim's hand tightly, and forced a smile. "It's gonna be okay," he whispered. "Don't worry about me."

"Oh, God, Chief . . . how come you're the strong one here? That's supposed to be my job." Jim looked stricken, and wrapped his other hand around their joined ones, trapping Blair's hand with his.

"I don't have a choice." Blair's voice was tight with emotion. "It's be strong or fall apart, and falling apart just isn't an option." He looked up at Jim with drug-clouded eyes. "I'm scared, Jim. Really and truly scared."

"It's okay to be scared, Blair," Jim answered softly, trying to put a conviction he didn't feel behind the words. He looked up as the orderlies came to take Blair into surgery. With reluctance, he let Blair's hand go, laying it gently on top of the blankets. "I'm scared too, but I'll be strong for both of us," he murmured, as he watched the gurney being pushed down the hallway to the surgical suite.

Jim wandered down to the surgical waiting area, and plunked some quarters into the vending machine for a cup of coffee. He sipped at the bitter beverage, not even noticing the taste. He was startled when Simon walked up behind him, clamping a hand firmly on his shoulder.

"Simon!" The coffee sloshed over his hand, yet he was barely aware of it.

"How're you doing, Jim?" the captain asked.

Jim set the cup down and wiped at his hands with a napkin. "Not so great, apparently," he answered. "I think my senses are shutting down." At Simon's startled look, he rushed on. "They just took Blair into surgery." He turned to look the captain in the eye. "He's gone, Simon. My partner, my friend . . . when he comes back, he isn't going to be the same."

"I won't ply you with platitudes, and tell you everything's going to be fine, that nothing will really change, because it will change, Jim. You know it. I know it. Blair knows it." Simon stared his friend down, daring Jim to contradict him. "But you'll find ways to cope. Blair is strong and creative. It's going to take some time to recover, some time to come to terms with life without his voice, but if anyone can make this work, Sandburg can. It's you I worry about," Simon confided. "Blair may go through a stage where he's mad at the world, and you are going to have to be the reasonable one, his anchor in the storm. He needs to know he has a safety net, that no matter how hard things get, you're not going to back out on him. Blair's had too many people leave him in the past, not unlike yourself. Be strong for him, Jim, when he can't be strong for himself."

"Been talking to the department shrink again?" Jim groused.

"As a matter of fact, yes I have, and it might not be such a bad idea for you, either," Simon suggested. "Sandburg's probably going to have to go to counseling, too. I'm certain his doctor will want to hook him up with a cancer survivors' group."

"He won't buy that, Simon, and you know it. He may claim to have been to shrinks ever since he was in Pampers, but that doesn't mean he enjoys the experience. Heck, the last time he went to the department shrink, he completely bamboozled the guy. Sandburg knows more about counseling than most counselors!"

"Just keep it in mind, Jim. You may need more than each other on this one."

0-0-0-0-0

Jim stared through the window of the ICU unit, watching the sleeping occupant of the room.

"You can go in, you know." Dr. Stuart walked up behind Jim, startling him.

"How is he, Doctor?" Jim asked, his eyes never leaving the still form.

"He came through the surgery with flying colors," the doctor replied. "I assisted Dr. Cooper, the oncologist, with the surgery. We've placed a temporary tracheotomy tube in his neck to assist with breathing. It'll be removed before Blair leaves the hospital."

Jim grimaced at the sight of the hole in Blair's neck. "But he's doing all right? He can breathe on his own?"

"He's doing very well," Dr. Stuart acknowledged. "The trach tube is just an assist while the initial surgery heals. He doesn't need a respirator at this point, and I don't believe it will become necessary. Once it's removed, only a small scar will remain." He paused briefly. "When Blair is released from the hospital, I'll want him to go through a six-week course of daily radiation treatments, to make sure all the cancer is destroyed, and to prevent it from recurring in other nearby sites. We'll discuss that in more detail once he's awake and coherent. He'll need at least two nights in ICU. Once he's been moved to a regular room, we'll talk."

"Sure, Doc. Thanks." As the doctor left to tend his other patients, Jim pressed open the ICU room door.

His eyes swept briefly over the man in the bed, taking in the drainage and feeding tubes, as well as the IV lines for hydration and medicines. He stroked a hand that lay quietly on top of the blankets, as much to reassure himself as to comfort Blair. When the hand moved slightly beneath his, he looked up, startled to find clear blue eyes watching him.

"Hey, Blair! How're you feeling?" He brushed an errant strand of hair off the younger man's forehead.

Blair opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. A hand flew to his throat, feeling the opening there, and desperation clouded his eyes.

"Blair! Blair! Chief, no. You just had surgery, remember?" Jim gently pried the hand from Blair's throat and placed it back on the blanket. "You need to rest. You were in surgery nearly five hours, and you're in ICU now. Dr. Stuart wants you to sleep. He'll come talk to us when you're feeling a little better, maybe in a couple days. Okay?"

Blair blinked, and turned his head to the side, away from Jim. Closing his eyes, he tried not to think how helpless he currently felt.

Jim noticed how damp the long, dark lashes were. He brushed a thumb across them, wiping the moisture away. "It's going to be okay, Blair. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Sleep." He stroked the long curls. "Sleep."

Three days later--
Surgical floor:

Jim awoke from a light nap when the nurse came in to check Blair's vitals. The drainage tubes had been removed, but the feeding tube threaded through his nose into his stomach was still in place. The nurse smiled at him as she replaced the bag of nutrient solution.

"How are you this morning, Mr. Ellison?" she greeted him. The irascible cop had become a permanent fixture next to Mr. Sandburg's bed, and the nursing staff had learned to take him in stride.

"As well as can be expected," he growled, anxious to be left alone with Blair.

"Would you like to order some breakfast?" She handed him the day's menu. "Blair can't eat it yet, so you might as well take advantage."

"Just some coffee." He handed the menu back. "And maybe a Danish."

"I can pick that up for you right here on the floor," she said, referring to the nurses' station. "Be right back." She left, and returned in short order bearing a styrofoam cup of coffee and a raspberry Danish on a napkin.

"Thanks," Jim acknowledged, setting the food on the table by the bed.

After the nurse had left, he turned his attention back to Blair, pleased to find clear blue eyes watching his every move.

"Hey, Marcel. How're you doing this morning?" He gripped the hand closest to him and squeezed it lightly. Blair managed a weak smile in return. "Must feel good to be liberated from ICU. Damn, but I hate all the restrictions they put on you in there."

Blair nodded in agreement, then opened his mouth, only to snap it shut again. He raised a hand to his throat, running a finger around the edges of the tracheotomy. His eyes clouded.

Jim spotted a note pad on the night stand and grabbed it, placing it on the bed's table and pushing it in front of Blair. He dug a pen from his pocket, handing it to his friend.

Blair bent over the pad. He wrote laboriously for a brief time, then handed the note to Jim. Didn't think it would feel like this.

"Feel like what, Blair? Are you in pain?" Jim began to worry. Blair's face looked pinched, tired.

No pain. Just . . . he paused, looking up at the Sentinel, wishing communication had not become such a monumental hurdle. Frustrating! he finished, tossing down the pen and shoving the pad at Jim.

"It's going to get easier, you'll see." He grimaced when Blair opened his mouth, then shut it quickly, turning his head away so he wouldn't have to look at him. "Blair, the trach tube will be removed before you go home. You'll only have a scar to deal with, not the hole." He did his best to sound reassuring.

When Blair didn't respond, Jim got up and rummaged through Blair's duffel bag. Extracting the laptop, he brought it over, setting it up on the table and sliding it in front of Blair. Raising the head of the bed, he helped his partner get comfortable. "Think you can use this?"

Blair's face lit up, and he began to boot up the computer, opening the word processor as soon as he could. As keys tapped rapidly, Jim read the words forming on the small screen.

How did the surgery go? Did they get all the cancer? Blair typed.

"Yeah, they think so. Dr. Stuart said it didn't look like it had spread. He wants to talk to you about radiation therapy, though." Jim glanced from the screen to Blair's determined face, and back again.

To make sure the cancer doesn't come back?

"Yeah, and to make sure it doesn't spread."

When can I go home?

"Whoa, hold up there a minute!" Jim actually chuckled. "You just got out of ICU last night. I think you've got a little more time here, first."

I want to go home! The force with which Blair hit the keys told of his frustration.

"Why don't you let me see if I can find Dr. Stuart? He can answer all your questions," Jim suggested.

Blair made shooing motions with his hands, his expressive features screwed up into a "Well, go do it, then!" look.

Not one to often argue when Blair got into one of his moods, Jim took off, grateful to have a task to keep him busy. He finally located the doctor, who promised to return for a consultation with his patient as soon as he had finished with his morning rounds.

An hour later, the doctor stood at Blair's bedside, reading as fast as his patient could type. Jim mentioned radiation therapy. How much? How long? What side effects?

"We can start the radiation treatments as soon as you're released from the hospital," the doctor began. "When the treatment starts, I'd expect you to come in once a day, Monday through Friday, for six weeks. You'd get the weekends off to rest and recover a bit."

Will I lose my hair? Chemo makes you lose your hair.

"Not necessarily. Chemotherapy is systemic, and while it does mainly attack the cancer cells, it also has effects on the entire body. Radiation, however, usually only effects the immediate area being treated. Your throat is certainly close enough to your scalp that you could experience some thinning, but the x-rays are directed quite precisely to the treated area, so I suspect hair loss would be minimal."

Jim stroked the tangled mass of curls with relief, earning himself a smile from his friend.

I didn't know you cared, Jim.

"Well, you know how it is," Jim quipped. "If you were both mute AND bald, I'd have to ask what alien came and replaced my partner." Jim watched the screen as Blair's fingers flew. "I don't think that's anatomically possible," he laughed.

The doctor harrumphed at the byplay, then turned back to his patient. "Any other questions, Blair?"

What other side effects should I expect? Blair watched the doctor as he typed.

"Fatigue will definitely be a factor. You may not feel up to your regular activities. However, there's no reason you can't be active, and it would be a good thing if you were." He smiled at Blair, pleased to see that the young man was taking an active interest in his treatment so soon after surgery. "You may also see some reddening at the treatment site, somewhat like a minor sunburn, and because of the location of the cancer and treatment, you may also experience a decrease in your appetite. I must stress that it's more important now than ever that you get good nutrition. There will be days when you may have to force yourself to eat, but I'll expect you to do it. I'll have you in for weekly checkups, to monitor the course of the radiation treatments, and to see that you're following orders."

"You tell him, Doctor," Jim enthused. "I can't get him to listen to me! Ah, Blair," he said, glancing at the screen again. "You'd use that kind of language in front of the doctor?"

Blair shot him a withering look that made the Sentinel happy, for the moment, that his partner couldn't speak.

How soon can I get rid of the trach tube? Blair looked at the doctor with pleading eyes.

"You're doing so much better this morning, I'm considering removing it this afternoon." His pronouncement won him a big smile and a thumbs up.

When can I go home? Blair continued his barrage of questions.

Dr. Stuart chuckled. "Well, if you keep badgering poor Jim, here, he's going to beg me to keep you here a month!" At Blair's deep breath of protest, he continued, "But since I can't have you talking to the nurses like that, I think I'll release you in another five days, provided everything goes as planned."

Good. Blair turned defiant eyes on Jim, daring him to argue with the doctor.

"Don't look at me that way," Jim protested. "I'm looking forward to getting you home. Really."

Blair released a rumble of air that might have been a harrumph of disbelief.

"Just one more thing, Blair," the doctor paused. "I respect your decision to wait on the voice prosthesis, but please keep the option in mind. I think you'd be happy with the results."

I'll think about it, honest, Blair typed. Thanks, Dr. Stuart.

"You're quite welcome, Blair." Dr. Stuart paused briefly at the door. "I'll be by to see you again later this afternoon for the trach removal."

Once the doctor was out the door, Jim turned to his Guide. "Not to sound selfish here, Chief, but what about my senses? What if I zone? How can you help me if you can't talk?"

Blair looked up sharply, eyes blazing. He took a deep breath to center himself, and considered Jim's concern. You've come a long way in the past three years, Jim. You've got much better control of your senses. You hardly ever zone anymore, and when you do, you don't need my voice to bring you back out.

Jim came to settle on the edge of the bed, looking doubtful. "If you say so," he reluctantly agreed.

Blair lifted his eyes from the laptop screen and eyed the Sentinel appraisingly. After a few minutes of silent observation, he began typing again. What's wrong, Jim?

"What do you mean, 'what's wrong'? I'm fine," Jim protested.

No, Jim. There's more here than you're telling me. Something's not right. I can feel it.

"I don't want to burden you right now. It's not important. When you're feeling better." Jim physically backed away from the bed, trying to discourage his partner.

Blair wasn't that easily dissuaded. Tell me now, or I'm not going to be able to rest. It's your senses, isn't it?

Jim dropped his head and studied his shoes. "Yeah. They sort of shut down while you were in surgery. I'm okay, though."

Let me help.

"Not now, Blair. You get better, first. Come home. I'll live until then."

Temporarily defeated, Blair fell back against his pillows, exhaustion catching up with him. Jim moved the table away from the bed, lowered the head end a bit and fluffed the pillows.

"I'll be right here," he said. "You get some rest now, okay?"

Blair just nodded and closed his eyes.

0-0-0-0-0

Blair dropped his duffel inside the front door, spread his arms wide, and with a big smile on his face, turned in circles, taking in the entire sight of the loft.

"Yeah, it's good to have you home," Jim smiled. "What now?"

Blair put a hand to his mouth, miming eating, before heading toward the kitchen.

"Can't say I blame you. How about some homemade chicken soup?" He rummaged in the refrigerator for the soup he'd cooked up the night before, in preparation for his partner's homecoming.

Blair nodded enthusiastically, getting out the bowls and spoons. He checked the bread box, pleased to see there were still some of the whole wheat rolls he'd baked prior to going into the hospital. Nervous energy had found its release in baking, much to Jim's surprised pleasure. When Blair had entered the hospital, Jim had put most of the rolls in the freezer, saving them for when his partner could enjoy them again.

They sat down together and began to eat. Blair still found swallowing difficult. Dr. Stuart had warned it would be a while before the soreness in his throat would begin to fade. After a few labored bites, he bent over his pad, scribbling quickly. He passed the note across the table to Jim.

In the hospital, you told me your senses had shut down? Jim understood the implicit "talk to me" in the simple question.

"It's not that big a deal," Jim tried to minimize his own problems. After all, he could still see, hear, touch, taste and smell, even if the level of sensitivity had dropped a hundredfold. Blair, on the other hand, had lost much more, and Jim felt that focusing on his problems at a time like this was just plain selfish. "When they took you to surgery, I started noticing everything beginning to shut down, one sense at a time. I'm fine, though. Really. You need to focus on your own recovery right now."

NO! Blair shook his head, grabbing the pad back and writing again. I've spent a WEEK focusing on my problems. I want to focus on yours. A sentinel will always be a sentinel, if he chooses to be. Choose, dammit!

Jim sighed, looking up from the pad. "I have chosen, Blair. It's not important now. Besides, how can you help me get my senses back when you can't . . . oh, God." He watched as the earnest anger on Blair's face mutated back to humiliation and fear. "Blair, I'm sorry." He reached across the table, capturing Blair's hands and holding them tightly. "I mean . . . geez." He sighed again, finding it hard to look his friend squarely in the eyes. "I mean, you've always talked me back before. It's the sound of your voice. . . ." His own voice dropped off, and he released Blair's hands, pulling back.

Blair concentrated on his lunch, head bowed over the bowl of soup.

When the silence finally became uncomfortable, Jim tried again, this time changing to a safer topic. "Simon says he needs me back at work tomorrow. Is that going to be a problem for you?"

Blair just shook his head, and continued to eat without looking up.

"Would you like to come in and see the gang? They call and ask about you every day."

Blair shook his head again.

"Blair, look at me," Jim ordered. "Please?"

The new detective shook his head again, then suddenly pushed away from the table, leaving his lunch only half eaten. After pacing the room for several minutes, he came back to the table and wrote furiously for a few seconds. I don't want them to see me like this.

Jim sighed as he read the note. "I know this is going to take some getting used to, but you're going to have to face it eventually, Blair." The young man shook his head again in defiance. "They need to see you, to know you're okay."

I'm not "okay." I'll never be "okay" again. Okay? Blair slammed the pen down and stalked off. Jim let him go. He wasn't sure how to handle the anger simmering right below the surface, ready to be set off by an unthinking word.

Jim finished his lunch, then gathered up the dishes and took them to the sink. He had just begun washing when Blair appeared behind him, pushing a writing pad into his line of sight.

They really want to see me?

"Of course they do. They're your friends."

Blair took the pad back, but it was soon returned to Jim's view. Okay. Tomorrow?

"Yeah. Tomorrow's good," Jim agreed, privately relieved at his partner's acquiescence.

More scratching of pen on paper. Want to watch some basketball this afternoon?

It sounded like a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon, so Jim readily agreed.

The day had passed in relative comfort after that, but the incredible silence of a world without Sandburg's constant chatter was beginning to grate on Jim's nerves.

"I think I'm going to call it a night," he said around nine o'clock. "You need to use the bathroom?" Blair shook his head, so Jim went in to take care of brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed.

When he emerged, he saw that Blair had retreated to his room. He stuck his head in to say good-night. "And if you need anything, anything at all, just yell," he added. When Blair looked up at him with flashing eyes, he heard his own words. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry, Blair. You . . . you know what I meant."

Blair just nodded, then turned away dismissively. Jim backed out of the room, feelings of disappointment and loss weighing heavily in the pit of his stomach. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, slipped under the covers, and attempted to listen for the comforting sound of Blair's heartbeat. Frustrated by his current limitations, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

~@~@~@~

Blair stripped and walked to the bathroom. He stepped under the hot spray of the shower, anxious to get the smell of the hospital out of his hair and off his skin. He left the gauze bandage in place to protect the surgical site, knowing he would need to replace it with a fresh dressing when he was finished.

Placing a dollop of shampoo in his palm, he began to lather his hair. He paid careful attention to his scalp, scrubbing thoroughly until it hurt. He rinsed and lathered again before applying the conditioner. Once he had finished with his hair, he grabbed the soap and loofa, and began to scrub with a vengeance. As he cleaned, he felt hot tears welling in his eyes. He blinked them back, unwilling, as yet, to cry. He kept scrubbing, until his skin was pink and sensitive from the exfoliating, and the water in the shower had begun to run cold.

Stepping out, he wrapped a towel around his hair, turban-style, then dried himself off, fastening the damp towel around his waist. He stood in front of the steamed-up mirror and wiped a clear circle on the glass with his hand. Carefully, he raised his fingers, tracing the healing scar. Just because he still couldn't quite believe it, he opened his mouth and tried to form a word, his name. No sound, except the rushing of air through his throat, emerged. The tears he'd been holding back finally slid in hot tracks down his cheeks. He turned away from the mirror, still uncomfortable with his own reflection.

Finally forcing himself to turn back, he opened the medicine cabinet and removed the box of gauze pads. He taped a fresh one over the scar, hiding it from sight once more. He toweled his hair dry and brushed his teeth, then went back to his room where he pulled on a t-shirt and boxers. He threw back the blankets on his bed and climbed in, but found sleep elusive. He had been in the hospital a grand total of eight days, and now one at home. Nine days since his voice was taken from him. Nine days that he'd had to put up a front for the doctors, and especially for Jim. Nine days of living in a fog of denial, only to find the reality settling in as he tried to sleep, alone for the first time since the surgery.

Blair rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling--his ceiling, Jim's floor. Jim was right above him. He wasn't alone. So why did he feel as though he'd been utterly and completely abandoned? Why did he feel so empty, so afraid? Because, his inner voice spoke, he knew that if he truly needed Jim, he couldn't call for him.

He thought back to all the spiteful and angry comments he'd flung at Jim as he waited--first for the diagnosis, then for the surgery. Fear had manifested itself as anger toward the one person who supported and loved him the most. Loved? Yes, he truly believed Jim loved him. Not that way, of course, but as a brother, a partner, a friend. He hadn't deserved the treatment Blair had dished out, yet he took the barbed comments in stride, being surprisingly understanding and supportive.

Closing his eyes, Blair tried once more to sleep, but fear niggled at the corners of his mind, not allowing him to rest. Desperation finally motivated him, and he climbed out of bed. As quietly as he could, he approached the staircase. Standing at the bottom, he looked up, seeing Jim asleep on the near side of the large bed. Chewing at his lower lip nervously, he finally gathered his courage and set foot to the stairs. He climbed slowly, his heart beating like a jackhammer in his chest. He paused at the top, making sure that his approach hadn't awakened the sleeping Sentinel.

Jim lay perfectly still. Blair circled the bed, coming around to the far side. He carefully lifted the blanket and comforter, and sat on the edge of the bed. Swinging his legs up, he curled up on the far side of the mattress, away from Jim. He lay his head carefully against the corner of a pillow, closed his eyes, and almost instantly found the release of sleep.

~@~@~@~

Jim, who had not been sleeping well anyway, was highly aware of his new bed partner. However, Blair had made no move to alert him, and had, in fact, gone to some trouble not to disturb his rest.

Determined to leave Blair alone, if that's what the young man wanted, he closed his eyes again, and attempted to sleep. But sleep still refused to come. He rolled over to face Blair, whose back was to him. He made an effort to reach out with his senses, to listen for the heartbeat, for the even respirations. Without being fully aware, he slipped into a peaceful sleep. When the alarm woke him the next morning, he was alone in the bed, and his senses were back on-line.

0-0-0-0-0

It was with an air of trepidation that Blair walked through the doors of Major Crime. He had insisted his friends stay away after the surgery and initial recovery period, giving himself some breathing space to come to terms with his new condition. Now, he had to face them, face them and their pity for a fellow officer who no longer had his voice.

Jim had warned the crew ahead of time not to mob Blair when he arrived, so their entrance was somewhat anticlimactic. Simon was the first to welcome his detective back.

"Sandburg, Ellison--my office, gentlemen." He stood at the door, gesturing inward. The men made their way across the bullpen, and into the relative safety of the private office.

"It's good to have you back, Sandburg," Simon began. Blair smiled and nodded, standing in front of the captain's desk. "Well, sit down, you two. You're making me nervous." When his detectives had settled themselves, he turned to his coffee pot. "Coffee?"

"No, thank you, sir," Jim answered for them both. "Blair's still having some trouble drinking hot liquids."

"Oh. Sorry, kid. I didn't know." Simon looked contrite. Blair just gave a dismissive wave and smiled. "So, how are you feeling? Everything going okay?"

Blair reached into his pocket for a notepad and pencil. I'm coping. I think I drive Jim a little nuts sometimes, though. He handed the pad to the captain.

Simon chuckled. "So what else is new?"

Jim grabbed the pad as Simon was passing it back to Blair. "Smart ass. Don't let this sweet face fool you, Simon. The kid's a bitch to live with." He turned to smile at Blair, letting him know the harsh-sounding words were merely good-natured banter.

"Same could be said for you," Simon retorted on Blair's behalf.

Blair scratched another note, and handed it to the captain. I can't deny I'm scared. Jim's there for me. I'm okay.

"You hang in there, Blair. It gets better." Simon sighed and handed the notepad back. "Why don't you go out and talk with some of the other men? I'm sure they're anxious to hear how you're doing. I need to talk with Jim for a minute."

Blair nodded and stood. Jim grabbed his arm. "I'll be out in a few, okay?"

Blair smiled and nodded again, disengaging his arm and exiting the room.

"Jim." Simon sobered, turning back to his friend. "Blair is processing through the stages of grief. Right now he's frightened . . . but wouldn't you be, if you'd lost something as precious as your voice?"

"I know, Simon." Jim sighed and deflated slightly. "It's just rough on both of us right now. I never realized how much I enjoyed listening to him talk. I miss his voice, that constant chatter."

"Denial, anger, depression . . . they're all part of the cycle, Jim. You'll both go through them. Right now, Blair needs you to be strong for him. He's feeling vulnerable. Go on out there, be his friend." Simon ended his impromptu lecture and shooed the detective from his office.

Out in the bullpen, Henri Brown had cornered his young colleague. The pair seemed to be having a lively conversation. Henri's hands were flying as fast as his mouth, and Blair was scribbling madly in return.

"What's going on here?" Jim asked, wandering over and inserting himself into the conversation.

Blair shoved his notepad at the startled detective, who scanned it and looked up. "Sign language?"

"Yeah," Brown enthused. "It's perfect! Gives Blair a fast, portable way to communicate. It's much more efficient than writing notes. You'd be surprised how many people can actually interpret sign."

"And you know it how?" Jim wondered.

"I've got a deaf niece. Sweet little thing. Talks a mile a minute with those hands of hers. I had to learn so I could keep up with her." A smile creased the large detective's face from ear to ear. "I was just telling Blair, here, about the classes I took at the Mount Clarice School for the Deaf. They have hearing teachers there who teach sign to the family and friends of the deaf. You and Blair should go take classes."

Jim grimaced, and was about to tell Henri thanks, but no thanks, when he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned to see a bouncing, smiling Blair. The note in his hand read, Please, Jim?

Damn! Those eyes, so trusting, so hopeful. As he frequently did when confronted with the full impact of the Sandburg charm, he caved. "Yeah, sure, if you think this will make it better."

Blair turned to Henri and grabbed his hand, pumping it enthusiastically. "Hey, kid, you're welcome."

Blair started to write "thank you," but Henri stopped him, instead making a sign. "Thank you," he said as he made the simple gesture.

Thank you! Blair signed back.

"You're welcome!" Henri chuckled at the young man's renewed exuberance.

The rest of the day had gone well, with Blair greeting old friends and striking up new acquaintances in the precinct. By that night, both men were exhausted.

Jim lay quietly in bed, reliving the high points of the day, grateful that Blair had finally found something that made him look forward to the future, and whatever it held for them both. He wasn't overly surprised to hear the quiet footsteps on the stairs, or the squeak of the springs as Blair crawled onto the far side of the bed again. Unwilling, this time, to lay there quietly and pretend he hadn't noticed, Jim reached out, snagging Blair's waist, pulling him to the center of the bed and spooning up against the warmth of his body. "It's okay, Blair. You can stay," he whispered in an ear, when Blair began to struggle to get free. The body in his arms relaxed, and he felt a hand cover his, where it draped across Blair's body. Content, Jim soon drifted off to sleep.

~@~@~@~

It had been an emotional day. Going into the precinct, and facing all his friends and colleagues, had been every bit as draining as Blair had expected it to be. It had also been far more rewarding. He was excited by the prospect of communicating via sign language, and grateful to Henri for having suggested it. He had been even more surprised when Jim had reluctantly agreed to go with him.

He got himself ready for bed, then paused at the French doors, glancing up to the loft bedroom. It had felt good being near Jim. Blair was still feeling a bit cut adrift in a sea where the silence was of his own making. Hesitating only slightly, he headed for the stairs, promising himself just one more night, then he would be able to sleep alone again.

As he had the previous night, Blair climbed the stairs as quietly as he could, and took care climbing into the far side of the bed. He had barely settled down when a strong arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him to the center of the bed. Unable to apologize or protest verbally, Blair began to struggle, embarrassed at having been caught. He felt the warmth of a hard-muscled body curl around his, and warm breath whispered in his ear. "It's okay, Blair. You can stay."

Relief swept through the younger man, and he relaxed against his shelter. The arm stayed draped possessively across his waist. Blair's mouth curled into a smile as he covered Jim's hand with his own. Closing his eyes, he found that sleep claimed him quickly.

0-0-0-0-0

Blair tugged on Jim's arm to hurry him along. They were already late for their first class in American Sign Language.

Jim hesitated at the door. "You sure you want to do this, Chief?"

They had been through all this earlier in the day. Jim knew how important this class was to Blair and to his ability to communicate, but he couldn't get over his own reluctance about going back to school. Jim was no slouch in the brains department, but languages had never been a strong point with him. He was now faced with learning what was essentially a foreign language, or being unable to fully communicate with his friend.

Blair gave one more angry tug, then let go and slammed through the doors alone. Jim followed, close on his heels. "Hey, wait up!" he called, but his irate partner managed to keep two strides in front of him through sheer determination. Jim jogged a few steps to get in front of the younger man. "Blair, I'm sorry. I want to be here with you."

The look he got in return said clearly, "Do you?"

"I do. Yes, I do. We need this--I know we do." Jim looked desperate. "You're going to have to be patient with me. This is all so new, I'm a little nervous."

Blair's face softened. He placed a hand on Jim's shoulder, steering him into the classroom. They found seats near the front of the room and settled in.

Welcome, the instructor signed and spoke at the same time. My name is Bernard Langlier, and this is the beginner's class in American Sign Language. I like to start all my new classes with getting to know my students. We'll go around the room. I'd like you to introduce yourself, and tell us briefly why you're here. He looked pointedly at Blair, who immediately shook his head, panic building quickly behind clear blue eyes.

Jim spoke up, filling the awkward silence. "My name is Jim Ellison, and this is my partner, Blair Sandburg. We're detectives with the Cascade PD's Major Crime Division. Blair recently lost his voice to throat cancer. While he can hear, he can't communicate. A friend recommended we take this class."

Very good, Bernard acknowledged. Welcome to the class. And you? he asked, turning to the next student.

When the entire class had introduced itself, Mr. Langlier continued. First of all, I'd like it if everyone in the class would call me either Bernie, B-E-R-N-I-E, he signed, or "teacher." He gave the sign for teacher. ASL is a language unto itself. If you came here hoping to learn signed English, you're in the wrong class. ASL has its own grammar and jargon, and eventually, we'll cover it all. For tonight, I'm going to teach you a few basic signs and the alphabet. With these, you should be able to communicate effectively with anyone in the deaf community. He went on to demonstrate.

The time went by quickly. As they gathered their books and study materials, Jim bumped against Blair's shoulder. "That wasn't so bad," he admitted. The smile Blair flashed in his direction was well worth the confession.

Four weeks later:

Blair stormed through the loft, knocking things down, pulling books off the shelves, heading to the kitchen to see what would break. His mood was as dark as any the Sentinel had seen since bringing him home from the hospital. Even tears would be easier to take than this uncontrolled anger. And the fact that all this destruction was performed in an eerie silence just made it all the worse.

Jim finally stepped in front of his rampaging Guide, grabbing his wrists to stop the imminent destruction of their dinnerware. Blair struggled to free himself, shouting soundlessly at the man restraining him. Jim held on tighter, waiting for the storm to pass.

"Blair, calm down! I understand. I know you're upset. You have every right to be, but breaking the loft isn't going to solve anything."

Blair continued to struggle against the hold on his arms. Jim was beginning to feel the tension ache through his forearms and biceps as he tried to hold on to his whirlwind partner. Finally, Blair calmed down. Rather, he just stopped, dead still, and looked at Jim, staring at him with an unfathomable expression. Jim released his arms and stepped back, waiting to see what would happen next.

Don't ever do that again! Blair signed angrily.

"What? What did I do wrong this time?" Jim felt his own anger simmering. He was trying to be patient. He knew that what Blair was going through was extremely difficult, and that the young man still had a lot of processing yet to do, but sometimes . . . sometimes it got to be just a bit too much.

Don't ever hold my hands still like that! It's my only means to communicate, and you shut me down. I couldn't talk, couldn't explain, couldn't anything with you holding me like that! His hands flew at a speed that made interpreting difficult for the Sentinel, who was still struggling to understand the gestures. Blair, with his seemingly endless capacity to assimilate new languages, had picked up sign quickly and efficiently. Jim, on the other hand, felt clumsy and slow. He did understand why Blair was so angry with him, though.

"I'm sorry, Blair. I didn't know what I was doing. I just felt the need to stop you before you broke everything in the loft!" Jim sighed, then resumed speaking, quietly. "I didn't realize I was silencing your 'voice'. Forgive me?"

Blair just nodded, but his hands remained still. Jim wondered if he'd ever get used to the silence. He missed Blair's voice, even raised in anger, more than he'd ever admit to the younger man.

"Care to tell me what that little display was all about?" he asked, leading Blair over to the couch and sitting down beside him. "Take it slow, okay?"

Blair began to sign at a more moderate pace. Bad day. Radiation. Makes me tired. I'm sick of it.

"You're over halfway there, Blair. Just another couple of weeks. Dr. Stuart says you're doing great."

It just seems so pointless sometimes, Blair signed, letting a breath escape that sounded like a sigh. There's no guarantee the cancer won't come back. I didn't ask for this, Jim. What did I do? Did I screw with my karma by becoming a cop?

Jim just shook his head, not having a ready answer to the mostly rhetorical questions. Compared to Blair, he didn't even know the meaning of "bad day." He massaged circles on Blair's back, feeling him melt against his chest, relaxing into the comforting embrace.

Once he felt the anger drain away, Jim suggested, "How about a little meditation? That always seems to make you feel better." He watched Blair's face for a reaction.

Blair lifted his head and looked at Jim. That would be nice. Thanks. He rose to gather his candles and incense, while Jim rummaged through the CDs looking for something soothing. He paused when he lifted the jewel case containing Australian Aboriginal music, the CD that had been playing the day Incacha visited--Blair's "earth music." His put it in the player and set the machine to continuous play.

When he turned, he saw Blair had returned, and was lighting the candles and incense. When he saw Jim looking at him, he signed, Maybe you'd better go take a walk for an hour or two. I'll have the loft aired out when you get home.

"That's okay, I don't mind. What's that fragrance? It doesn't make my nose itch."

Patchouli. If it really doesn't bother you, I don't mind if you stay.

Jim settled on the couch, next to where Blair sat on the floor, back supported by the couch. He lay his head back and relaxed, letting the tribal music wash over him.

Blair crossed his ankles, sitting comfortably tailor-fashion, with the backs of his hands resting on his knees. Closing his eyes, he took long, deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth. Over and over. Until he was totally relaxed.

They stayed that way for nearly two hours. Blair finally opened his eyes and pulled himself up on the couch next to Jim. He leaned over to blow out the candles, the incense having burned itself out long ago. Thanks, Jim. I really needed that. I'm glad you suggested it.

Jim shrugged off the comment. "I just needed to get you calmed down before our insurance rates went through the roof."

Blair looked around at the havoc he'd wreaked on the formerly spotless loft. Sorry, Jim. I'll clean it up. He began to rise, but Jim pulled him back down.

"Later," he said. "We'll do it together, later." With that, he pulled Blair's head down to his shoulder, wrapping his arm around his partner's shoulders.

0-0-0-0-0

Assigned to desk duty until the department could decide on a good use for a mute detective, Blair Sandburg worked diligently at the pile of paperwork.

"Nice having you back, Hairboy," Henri said, dropping more reports on the already teetering pile on the desk.

Up yours, H. Blair signed, looking disgusted with the whole business.

"Should have never suggested you learn sign," the big cop muttered. "You catch on way too fast."

Blair made a gesture not found in any books on American Sign Language. Henri let out a loud guffaw that turned heads in the bullpen.

Simon stepped out of his office and glanced around the room. The loud chatter immediately dropped to a murmur. The captain walked over to Blair's desk and cleared his throat. The junior detective looked up. Yes, Simon?

"Would you please find your partner," he glared at the empty desk next to Blair's, "and meet me in my office ASAP?"

Yes, sir.

Although Simon generally needed Jim or Henri to interpret Blair's signing for him, he understood the simple gestures and smiled.

Blair stood, and went in search of the missing man. Within five minutes, both detectives were seated in Simon's office.

"Gentlemen, there's been a murder," Simon started.

"Uh, Captain, we don't usually do murders. We're 'Major Crimes', remember?" Jim reminded Simon.

"I'm well aware of the crimes we do and do not cover, Detective," the captain answered back, all business. "However, this one was thrown into our laps because of special circumstances."

"And those circumstances would be. . . ?" Jim asked.

Simon eyed the senior detective, then turned his attention to the junior partner. "The murder was at the Mount Clarice School for the Deaf."

Oh, my God, who? Blair asked, wondering if it might be anyone they knew from taking the ASL classes at the school.

"Name's Michael Patterson, the social sciences instructor. Did you know him?" Simon asked, well aware that this was where his detectives had learned sign language. It was the very reason he'd chosen this team for the job.

"No," Jim answered. "Never met the man."

I remember hearing the name mentioned, Blair added. Damn! That's such a shame. He dropped his hands into his lap, feeling a sense of loss, even though he didn't know the victim.

Simon eyed his team, and continued, "We need a man to go undercover and see what he can find out." The comment was directed toward Blair.

"No, Simon!" Jim protested. "You can't put Blair on active duty."

Why not, Jim? Blair signed angrily. This is perfect for me. I sign well enough to go undercover as a teacher, and I can hear. That's an advantage our perp wouldn't be expecting.

"No, Blair. It isn't safe!" Jim was adamant.

Somebody died here, Jim! I can help. Do you know how utterly worthless I've felt around here lately? I'm tired of being a glorified secretary!

"What's going on here, gentlemen?" Simon asked, when Jim had become too engrossed in the argument to interpret for the captain.

"Blair wants to do it. He says he could go undercover as a teacher at the school."

"That would be perfect!" Simon's face lit up.

"You don't understand, Captain. Blair's not ready for an assignment. He's . . . he's . . ."

Mad as hell at you! Blair shouted, his hands flying right under Jim's nose. You're being overprotective again. I've got a clean bill of health, I'm feeling great, and I'm bored, bored, bored here at the precinct. Jim, this assignment was made for me. There's no one else on the force who could do this as well as I can, and you know it!

"Jim, we need Sandburg on this. He's a trained police officer. If he wants the assignment, it's his."

Blair nodded eagerly, and the deal was sealed, with Jim's protest properly noted.

0-0-0-0-0

"Dammit, Blair, why can't you keep that big mouth of yours shut!" Jim looked up to see Blair shaking with laughter, although not a sound issued from his throat. The sight unnerved the Sentinel.

I'll be fine, Jim. I'm going to get to teach again! Isn't that great? Mr. Zoster, the director of the school, says I can sign on as the new social sciences instructor. Right up my alley! Blair studied his friend, who stood next to him in the kitchen. Come on, can't you be happy for me? What kind of trouble can I get into teaching?

"You really want to know?" Jim asked sarcastically.

Oh, come on! All I have to do is teach, and keep my eyes and ears open. Anything I find out, you and your team will act on. I won't even be carrying my gun.

"Like hell you won't!" Jim exploded. "An officer always carries his gun on duty. You can hide the holster under your suit coat."

I'll be working with kids, Jim, Blair argued.

"In a school that possibly has a murderer running loose. You'll go in armed, or, by God, I'll see to it you don't go in!"

Blair exhaled and calmed himself. Jim, what's really going on here?

"What do you mean? I'm just watching out for your safety, that's all," Jim practically shouted, pacing out of the kitchen and around the loft.

It's more than that, Jim, Blair prodded. I know you worry about me. You always have--even more so since I got my badge. But what's eating you now? He guided Jim over to the couch and pressed him down into the cushions. Perching on the arm, he waited for his answer.

"I don't want to talk about it," he murmured.

I think you'd better, Blair insisted.

Jim turned his back on Blair. "I'm fine. I'm just worried about you, all right? Can't I be worried without you nagging at me for details?"

Blair tugged on Jim's arm, trying to turn him back around. When he wouldn't budge, Blair moved to the cushion next to him. You're really pissing me off here, Jim, he raged. I'm forced to listen to you, because I can hear, but you can shut me out by turning your head or closing your eyes! How do you think that makes me feel?

"Dammit, Blair! Don't you think that maybe, just maybe, I wish I could hear you? That I wish it wasn't so easy to shut you out?" Jim lashed back.

Blair backed off, stunned. His hands, when he spoke again, were subdued, held close to his own body. I didn't know, he whispered, his gestures small and compact.

"When you first moved in here," Jim confessed, "I prayed for the peace and quiet I had when I lived alone. I've never known anyone who could talk as much as you do." He paused, but Blair sat still, loath to interrupt. "Now, I'd give my own voice to hear yours again."

Oh, Jim. . . . The monologue had brought tears to Blair's eyes. He blinked them back. Is that all?

"Is that all? It's everything, Blair. God, when that doctor handed down the verdict of surgery, it was like a death sentence . . . mine." Jim turned away again. It wasn't often he let his softer emotions get the better of him. A gentle hand on his arm turned him back to face his friend.

I have something for you. Wait. He pressed a hand on Jim's shoulder as he rose and walked to his bedroom. A few minutes later, he came out, carrying a box. He handed it to Jim.

"What's this?" the puzzled Sentinel asked.

Open it, Blair instructed.

Jim lifted the lid hesitantly, and discovered a neat row of miniature cassettes, dated and labeled. He ran his fingers over them, finally pulling one out for closer inspection. He turned it over and over in his fingers, then looked up at Blair.

They're my notes, he explained. For the sentinel dissertation.

"I . . . I thought you got rid of everything after . . . after. . . ." Jim stuttered, stunned by the gift he held in his lap.

Not everything. I didn't say anything. I didn't want you to be angry. . . . Blair's head dipped as he made his confession.

"Why would I be angry?" Jim asked. "You didn't do anything wrong. Blair, thank you. I can't tell you how much this gift means."

You might not like everything you hear, Blair warned.

"Don't worry. I'll be listening to the voice, not the words." He snapped the first cassette into the small recorder Blair handed him, and put the speaker, turned to its lowest setting, to his ear.

Blair watched as a beatific smile spread across Jim's face. His pleasure in having given Jim this gift soon dissipated as his friend's eyes took on the glassy stare of a zone-out. Blair grabbed the small recorder, turning it off. He tried shouting at the Sentinel, his sudden fear making him forget the most basic fact of his new reality--he had no voice. He rubbed his hands briskly up and down Jim's forearms, finally giving the Sentinel a little shake.

He sat back in frustration, anger and fear warring inside. How could I be so stupid! he berated himself. Of course Jim would concentrate his hearing on that precious sound, focus to the point of shutting down all his other senses.

Spotting his ASL study guide on the table, he picked it up and slammed it down with a loud THWACK. The sudden noise snapped Jim back to the present.

You zoned! he accused.

"Sorry. I'm really sorry, Blair. God, I never thought I'd ever hear your voice again. I'll be more careful in the future. I promise."

Go to bed. Blair pointed to the stairs, more shaken than he wanted to admit. It's late. I start my assignment tomorrow.

Obediently, and without further protest, Jim rose and headed upstairs.

0-0-0-0-0

Simon sat at the conference table with his two detectives. "The victim, Michael Patterson, was a teacher at the school." He tossed the crime scene photos of the body across the table. "There was no apparent motive. Death was by a single gunshot wound to the head."

This is the man whose position I'm going to be filling? Blair asked, with Jim interpreting for Simon. He studied the photos, then flipped through the reports filed by the officers on the scene.

"Yes. Mr. Patterson was deaf, as are most of the staff, with the exception of the administrators. You're going to have to be especially careful, Blair, to make sure that no one but Mr. Zoster, the school's director, knows you can hear. That's your advantage undercover," Simon explained, pinning his junior detective with a look.

I understand. I'll go in, keeping my eyes and ears open for anything unusual.

"And you'll be contacting me if you find out anything," Jim growled. "No heroics in there. I don't want you risking yourself."

Jim, I know police procedures, all right? I'll call for backup. Promise. Blair eyed his partner with a disgusted look. His safety had been all Jim had harped about since Blair had agreed to take the assignment.

"You find out anything, anything at all, you contact me . . . then get your butt out of there as fast as possible," Jim snapped.

"Jim, ease up on the kid. He knows what he's doing. Hell, he's shown himself to be more than capable of handling himself on several occasions." Simon argued. "I can remember when he's pulled your butt out of the fire a few times!"

You tell him, Simon!

Jim was stubborn enough not to translate that last little barb from his partner, but the captain seemed to understand. He stood, gathering the papers together. "Dismissed, gentlemen. And, Blair, good luck."

Thanks, Captain. Blair gathered his suit coat, slipping it on over the shoulder holster and gun that Jim had insisted he wear. He clapped Jim on the back as he headed out into the bullpen.

"Blair . . ." Jim waited until his partner turned around. "Just be careful. All right?"

Of course, Jim. I'll see you this evening. Bye! Blair slipped out the doors of Major Crime and was gone. Jim released a worried sigh, busying himself with paperwork.

0-0-0-0-0

Welcome to Mount Clarice School for the Deaf, Clarence Zoster signed and spoke at the same time. Let me show you around. The Director led Blair through the school's corridors, pointing out the offices, and introducing the staff, as well as locating the necessities, such as the bathrooms and faculty lounge. Feel free to drop in for coffee between classes. Get to know some of your fellow instructors, he offered.

And, this, he said, opening a door, will be your classroom. Nineteen young heads swiveled to see their new teacher walk in with the school's director. Class, this is your new instructor, Mr. Sandburg. I trust you all will treat him with the respect he deserves. He turned to Blair. They're all yours. Good luck! He patted Blair's shoulder, and left the room.

Blair turned to the class, smiling. Good morning, he began. Mr. Zoster introduced me. I'm Mr. Sandburg, but you can call me Blair . . . providing you behave. If we have to resort to 'Mr. Sandburg', you can be sure that Mr. Zoster will hear about it. Any questions?

One hand shot up, and Blair studied the seating chart. Helen?

Yes, sir. Mr. Sandb . . . Blair, are you going to be our permanent new teacher? We've had a different sub every day since Mr. Patterson left.

I don't know, Blair hedged. I can't make promises, but I can tell you that I'll definitely be here more than one day. He smiled as the class broke into applause. After the excitement had calmed down a bit, he continued his introduction.

My specialty is Anthropology, but I've been hired to teach the entire Social Sciences curriculum. That said, I'd like to tell you some fascinating stories about some of the local indigenous people. . . .

By the time class was over, Blair had completely won the acceptance of every student. They had eagerly asked questions and jotted down notes, while Blair had relaxed into a routine well-worn in his memory. Something inside thawed a little as the teacher emerged, and the cop was temporarily set aside.

0-0-0-0-0

Nearly two weeks had passed, with nothing to indicate the killer was still on campus. With no other clues to push the investigation forward, Simon was seriously considering pulling his junior detective from his undercover assignment, and finding him something more productive to do.

It's almost there, Simon, I can feel it, Blair argued.

Reluctantly, Jim had to agree with his partner. "We've stuck it out this long, Simon. Give him another week. When Blair says he can feel something, I usually go with it. His intuitions are better than most people's facts."

"All right," the captain conceded, "but remember, there are other cases out there, just as important, that deserve our attention. If we don't have something by the end of next week, I'm turning the case back over to Homicide."

Thanks, Simon. I won't let you down. Blair practically bounced with excitement.

"I know you won't, Sandburg. Now, get to work!" Simon shooed the detective on his way, then turned to Jim. "Is it just me, or did that seem more like the old Sandburg to you?"

"You mean the old, pre-dissertation fiasco Sandburg?" Jim clarified. "Yeah. I've noticed, all right. There's something about this assignment, Simon. . . . I don't know, but it's done him a world of good."

"I just hope he finds something soon that will blow this case open for us. I can't continue to pursue a case that's not going anywhere." Simon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Some days, I really hate this job."

"I'm with you on that, sir," Jim agreed. "Don't worry. Blair will come through for us."

0-0-0-0-0

"It's too dangerous. We've got enough; let's take it, and get across the border into Canada."

Blair arrived early that Thursday morning. Hearing the hushed voice in the otherwise deserted office, he paused and stuck his head through the door. Shelley Chambers, the Director's administrative assistant, was on the phone. He walked up to her and tapped her shoulder.

'Morning, Shel. Want to get a cup of coffee? He turned on his award-winning smile.

"Gotta go," Shelley said into the phone. "We'll talk later." She hung up and signed, Sure, sounds great, Blair.

The pair made their way to the faculty lounge where the morning coffee was fresh and hot, and sweet rolls had been set out for those who had missed breakfast. They settled at a table overlooking the school's playground.

So, this makes nearly two weeks, Shelley commented. How do you like working at Mount Clarice?

I'm having a ball, Blair said, truthfully. He hadn't felt so fulfilled and happy in longer than he could remember. The kids are great, really bright. They've stumped me more than once.

I find that hard to believe, Shelley flirted. She had taken a real liking to the handsome new teacher. Too bad he's deaf and dumb, she thought. I hear you used to teach at Rainier University.

Yes, in Anthropology. Had to give it up when I lost my . . . hearing, he stumbled over the sign, almost giving himself away. This position has been a godsend. I missed teaching. He looked out at the school yard, with the children hard at play. Lights around the playground area began to blink, and the children all gathered to come inside.

Guess that's my cue. Blair grinned and stood up, dumping the excess coffee into the sink. Another day, another young mind to engage. He headed quickly toward his classroom.

At lunch, Blair dialed Jim's pager, leaving the "411" code--non-emergency, come at your earliest convenience. Jim arrived shortly before Blair had to return to the classroom. "What have you got, Chief?"

Suspicious phone call. Shelley Chambers, the office AA. Something about it being dangerous, having enough and heading to Canada, Blair signed quickly.

"Damn. Time to do a little digging. I'll call Zoster and see if he'll give us access to the school's computers."

By that evening, Jim and Blair were back at the school with Clarence Zoster, skimming the school's records and finances.

"Wait," Zoster said, pointing to some figures showing up in the bi-monthly accounting records. "That's not right."

Blair flagged the file, and they began to dig a little deeper.

"Well, I'll be damned," Jim swore, looking at the comparative spreadsheets from the past six months. "Somebody's been doing a little skimming . . . to the tune of $10,000. Who does your bookkeeping?" He turned to the Director.

"That would be Miss Chambers," Zoster answered.

Shelley? Blair didn't look surprised.

"Yes. We're a small school. Government funding is tight, and most families can't afford large donations, so we make do with fewer staff. Miss Chambers has been with me for fourteen months now. She's always been a good worker, on time . . . early, even. She often stays late, too."

"When there's no one else in the office to see . . . or hear," Jim commented. "But that still doesn't make a connection to our murder victim. Do we have two separate crimes here, or one committed to cover up the other?"

I didn't hear enough to suspect she's connected with the murder, Blair signed, defeated. Another dead end?

"Not necessarily." Jim stood. "Which desk is Miss Chambers'?"

Jim, you don't have a search warrant, Blair felt constrained to point out.

"Don't need one to search school property, if we have Mr. Zoster's permission," Jim commented, shuffling through the papers on the woman's desk.

"Which you most certainly do," Zoster confirmed.

Jim began sifting through the piles of papers on the desk. "Ah hah!" He snatched a bright yellow floppy disk from the bottom of the pile of documents in the "in" box. "Let's check this out."

Blair popped the disk into the drive and opened the only document saved there. Well, I'll be damned! Probable cause to bring Shelley in for questioning on the embezzlement charges, at least.

Blair turned to see Jim concentrating. His head was tipped to one side, and his nose twitched, as though he was scenting something the others couldn't smell.

What is it, Jim? Have you got something? As soon as he finished speaking, both hands went to Jim's arm, touch being a natural response to the Guide when the Sentinel was using his senses.

"I smell something."

What? What do you smell? Blair quizzed, then made contact again.

"Sweet. Like perfume."

Shelley practically bathes in the stuff, Blair commented, wrinkling his nose. I asked her about it once. She said it's a fragrance called 'Hypnotic Poison'.

"Apropos, perhaps," Jim commented, slightly distracted. "I've smelled it before. Somewhere else."

Where, Jim?

"Don't know. . . ."

Suddenly aware of their gaping audience, Blair signaled, We'll talk about this some more when we get home.

Jim shook himself back to the present, dispelling the faint scent memory. "Mind if we take this?" He waved the disk in front of the director.

"No. Feel free to take anything you need." Zoster was quick to agree.

0-0-0-0-0

That evening, Blair perched on the arm of the couch, looking down on the Sentinel, who relaxed back against the cushions, eyelids drooping, but eyes fixed firmly on his Guide.

Call up the scent again, Jim. Remember, scent memory is one of our strongest associative memories. Let your mind drift back. You've smelled this fragrance before. Where? Close your eyes, Jim. Let your other senses guide you. He laid a hand on Jim's forearm as the Sentinel closed his eyes, seeming almost to be asleep.

Blair waited patiently, certain Jim could sort through his sense memories to find where he'd smelled the perfume before. Suddenly, Jim's eyes snapped open. "Patterson!"

What, Jim? Patterson? You smelled that perfume on Michael Patterson? Our victim? Blair exploded from the couch, landing on his feet and pacing. I can almost believe that Shelley might be involved in some conspiracy to embezzle money from the school, but murder?

"We have a bullet, but no weapon," Jim mused. "I can use the embezzling to get a warrant to search her home." He turned on his partner. "Blair, I know it's asking a lot, but you've got to go to school tomorrow, and pretend like nothing's happened. I'll get a team to search her apartment. If we find the murder weapon, we'll come to the school to arrest her." Blair was listening, stunned. "It's up to you to act normal. Make her think there's nothing to suspect. We can't have her running--the border's too near. I'll get a trace on that phone call of hers, too. Find the accomplice." He slapped Blair on the back, all smiles. "I think we've just about got this one wrapped up!"

0-0-0-0-0

At noon the following day, Blair took his lunch into the faculty lounge, poured himself a cup of coffee and joined a group of fellow teachers. They were deep into a discussion on testing techniques, hands flying furiously, interrupting each other with abandon, when Shelley walked in.

Blair's chatter faltered, but he quickly resumed the argument. His back was to the counters, so he didn't notice the handle break from the coffee pot, which shattered, sending scalding liquid to splash on the secretary. The sudden sound of Shelley's scream caused Blair to jump involuntarily.

Shelley shot him a suspicious glance as she wiped herself down with napkins. As the other faculty gathered to help, Blair slipped out the door. He hurried back to his empty classroom, and dialed Jim's pager, this time leaving a "911" code--come immediately.

The classroom door opened, and Blair turned to see Shelley Chambers enter and shut the door behind her. "You bastard! You can hear! You've been spying on me, haven't you?" She advanced on Blair, who stood his ground, praying Jim would arrive soon with backup. He berated himself for leaving his holster and gun in his faculty locker. He just hadn't been able to bring himself to carry the weapon into a classroom filled with children. Jim was going to have his head when this was over.

"I liked you. I really did," she seethed. "I thought you were someone special." She reached for him, but Blair caught her wrists, and they struggled. Shelley was surprisingly strong for her diminutive size. Despite that, Blair's training came through and he got her in a wrist lock. Just as he was slipping his cuffs from a pocket, the classroom door opened again.

"Carlos!" Shelley screamed.

Startled, Blair lost his grip on the struggling woman. She grabbed a heavy dictionary from a nearby pedestal, swinging it into the side of Blair's head. He fell, hitting his head hard on the edge of the desk as he went down, knocking himself unconscious.

"Come on!" the man called Carlos yelled. "We gotta get out of here, now. The cops are on their way!"

"Wait. This is all the prick's fault," Shelley cursed, no longer the sweet administrative assistant. "He's going to pay." She grabbed a letter opener from the pencil caddy on Blair's desk and scored deep slashes in his wrists, not across, but down the length of his arms. Crimson quickly spread, staining the long sleeves of the white dress shirt. Shelley spat on the young teacher-detective, before grabbing Carlos' hand and making a run for it.

0-0-0-0-0

"Damn you, Blair." Jim stroked ringlets of hair from Blair's pale face, his voice more one of exasperated concern, rather than anger. "Why can't you just lay low when I tell you to lay low?"

Blair opened his eyes. The room swam, and his body felt like a lead weight. He focused on his partner, standing next to the hospital bed.

"Welcome back." Jim's voice was husky with emotion.

Blair attempted to sign a question, but found his wrists stiffly bound with layers of padding and gauze. He was unable to form an intelligible sign.

Jim placed his hands over Blair's, stilling them. "We got them," he explained. "We found all the evidence we needed in Chambers' apartment: the murder weapon, ammunition, and the stolen money. She even rolled over on Carlos for the murder." He smiled with feral approval. "Apparently, she and Patterson were an item. That's why I smelled her perfume on the body. Carlos found out about their little trysts, and shot Patterson. After that, Shelley seemed to have a sudden change of heart, and hid the murder weapon in her apartment to take the heat off her boyfriend. The murder and the embezzling were two separate crimes, after all."

Blair attempted to lift his hands once more, but Jim pressed them down. "That's not the half of it," he continued. "When we found out Carlos was the actual murderer, we assumed he was your assailant as well. . . ." Again, Blair tried to protest, but Jim barreled on with his explanation. "Turns out Carlos overheard Shelley saying she really liked you. Jealousy is an ugly thing, Blair. She figured she could pin your assault on Carlos, and get away with nothing worse than the embezzlement, but he ratted on her. She knocked you unconscious, slit your wrists, and left you to die. After we confronted her with that little tidbit, she actually confessed. She was under the impression she could plea bargain out of the attempted murder charge. Not likely." Jim let out a little harrumph of contempt.

"Thank God we found you in time. We arrived at the school about fifteen minutes after you paged me." He patted the heavily bandaged wrists. "You did a great job there, partner, but remind me to have a little talk with you when you're feeling stronger about carrying your weapon at all times." He shook his head, smiling at his recalcitrant partner. "Simon's been hinting around about putting you up for a commendation. You deserve it."

Blair rolled his eyes heavenward, shaking his head as he smiled weakly, finally resigned to the fact that Jim wasn't going to let him get a word in edgewise.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to leave the talking to me for a while," Jim chuckled. "I know I'll never reach your level of competency in the communication category, but you're stuck with me for now." He ruffled the russet curls, grinning down at Blair. "Get some rest, and consider yourself lucky . . . I have to do all the paperwork on this bust!"

Silent laughter shook the young detective, as he looked at Jim's disgusted features. He allowed himself to close his eyes and relax. Jim continued to stroke Blair's forehead and hair absentmindedly, until his hearing told him the younger man was finally asleep.

One week later:

Blair burst through the door and into the loft, hands flying as he babbled his excitement.

"Hey, hold up there a minute, Chief. You're getting way ahead of me," Jim laughed, pleased to see his friend so animated.

Mr. Zoster offered me a permanent teaching position at the school! Blair signed, as slowly as his excitement would allow.

"Really?" Jim asked, amazed.

Yeah. He said he called a meeting of the school's board of directors, and recommended me as their new Social Sciences teacher. He said it was a unanimous vote!

Jim froze, stunned by the news. Gathering his wits, he said what he knew Blair wanted to hear. "Wow, that's great." He walked across the room to give the younger man a congratulatory hug.

Blair soon pushed him off, being so eager to continue talking. He said the kids loved me; said their grades skyrocketed while I was there. This is so great, Jim! I'd almost forgotten how much I enjoyed teaching. This is a wonderful opportunity. Mr. Zoster said the school would even pay for me to return to Rainier to get my doctorate.

"Whoa! Hold up a minute!" Jim's thoughts were spinning wildly out of control at the news. "Blair, if you take this position, then what about . . . us?"

Us? Blair paused, confused. What about . . . us?

"Well, I mean, are you going to have time for your police work? This doesn't sound part time, especially with the dissertation thing."

No. . . . Blair signed cautiously. I'd have to . . . quit . . . police work.

"Quit?" Jim circled his partner, much like a panther stalking his prey. "You can't quit. What about my senses? What if I'm on a stakeout and zone? What am I supposed to do then?"

I can teach your new partner whatever he needs to know about recognizing the signs and how to help, Blair argued.

Jim's anger flared. "I'm not getting a new partner! I want the one I've got!"

Blair sank onto the couch. When he had come home, he'd been so excited. He hadn't expected to end up in a fight. Maybe I can work something out with Mr. Zoster, he conceded. I could teach mornings, and come down to the precinct in the afternoon.

"Damn straight!" Jim stood in front of Blair, looking down on his partner. "I need you, Blair. Work has been hell without you there." His voice softened, and he sat down beside his friend. "I've missed you. I want you to be happy, you know I do, but I've missed you so much."

Jim, you've got to know that I can't return as a detective. Without my voice, I'm no good to the department. Blair rested a hand on Jim's shoulder. Maybe I could come back as an advisor, he suggested.

"Yeah, that could work, I suppose," Jim mused.

I'd have to turn in my badge and gun.

"No! No, Blair, you can't do that. If you did, they could pull your ride-along status."

I don't 'ride along' anymore, Jim. I'm your partner, remember? Blair grinned.

"But if you resign as a detective, take on civilian status again . . . " Jim argued.

Blair sighed. Let's talk to Simon, and see what we can work out. Okay? Right now, I feel like celebrating.

"Yeah?" Jim grinned. "What did you have in mind?"

Oh, maybe a couple of beers and the Jags on TV?

"Sounds like a deal to me," Jim agreed. "Should we order pizza, too?"

Yeah. Make my half spinach and mushrooms, Blair signed, heading to his room for a change of clothes.

"Aw, Chief," Jim groaned. Shaking his head, he picked up the phone to call in the order. Whatever the future had in store for their partnership, Jim was certain of one very important fact, the Blair Sandburg he knew and loved, was back.

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