**********

Jim Ellison's head was going to explode.

Or at least that's what it felt like to a Sentinel with the flu. And all said Sentinel wanted was to be put out of his misery.

A week of daily rain, unseasonably cold temperatures, and a sharp spike in the crime rate had worn the officers of the Cascade PD to a frazzle and lowered their immune systems, and now a virulent strain of the flu was running rampant throughout the department. And Jim Ellison was its latest victim, along with his Sentinel abilities. None of his heightened senses were working right, thanks to his flu. Sick and run down, Jim's normally excellent control of his senses had abandoned him, leaving him open to random sensory spikes. So he had resorted to keeping his internal dials at normal or below normal levels. It was not a pleasant sensation for a Sentinel, being muted like that, and it made for an even grumpier Detective Ellison.

"Dammit, Sandburg, where's the Ervin file? You said you'd bring it up from Records an hour ago."

Blair Sandburg sighed at Jim's outburst, knowing it was the flu talking and not his friend. Pushing an errant curl behind his ear, Blair stood up from behind his desk in the bullpen and walked over to Jim's. Picking up the top file folder in Jim's "In" box, he placed it in front of the irritated detective. "I did bring it up from Records, just like I said I would," Blair replied patiently.

Jim let out a long breath and rubbed a hand across his face. "Chief, I..." he began.

Blair waved him off. "Forget it, it's OK." He took in his lover's flushed face and bloodshot eyes. "Jim, would you please go home? You need to be in bed resting, getting rid of that flu, not here."

Irritation once again flashed across Jim's features. "I'm fine. I don't need you playing nursemaid."

"Fine? You can't even concentrate. You've been staring at that same piece of paper for the last 20 minutes," Blair patiently pointed out. "The only thing you're accomplishing is biting people's heads off for no reason. I'll finish up the final paperwork I.A. needs on the Ervin case and get it filed by five o'clock like it needs to be. Go. Home."

"Sandburg..." Jim growled.

"I agree," chimed in a third voice. Two heads turned as Joel Taggert walked up to Jim's desk. "Listen to your partner. Go home and get some rest. Blair's been cleared by I.A. The case has been closed. There's nothing more you need to do. Let Blair finish up the report for you. Besides," Joel smiled, "his are always better written than yours."

"Joel, I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself and do my own reports," Jim insisted.

Joel sighed. "Since you're refusing to be reasonable about this, I'm ordering you to go home." He smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. "Since Simon and Megan left yesterday for that officer exchange seminar in San Diego, leaving me as acting captain, you have to listen to me."

Jim's jaw dropped. "You're pulling rank on me?"

The jovial black man smiled, looking very pleased with himself. "Yep."

Jim looked helplessly between Taggert and Blair. "I'm outnumbered, aren't I?"

Blair nodded. "You'd better believe it. So just concede defeat now and go home or I'll sic Rhonda on you, too."

Jim valiantly tried one last tactic. "Just how do you propose to get home, Sherlock, if I leave now? We drove together, remember?"

Joel shook his head, amused. "Good try, Jim. I'll take Blair home when he's ready." He handed Jim his Jags hat as Blair offered him his leather jacket.

Knowing he'd lost the battle, Jim stood, pulling on his outerwear as he headed for the elevator, sneezing violently one last time for good measure. He heard Blair call out as he stepped into the elevator.

"I'll brew you up something when I get home!"

"You keep away from me with that peyote!" Jim warned in mock-horror as the doors closed, unaware that something far more dangerous than a little homemade peyote awaited him at home.

Pulling into a parking spot outside 852 Prospect, Jim turned off the engine of his blue and white pickup truck and rested his aching head on the steering wheel. He was running a slight fever and every muscle in his body ached. He hated being sick. Hated that feeling of being weak, not up to par...and of others seeing it. Hence his insistence at the precinct that he was fine.

Jim raised his head and smiled at the memory of the concerned persistence of his roommate, pushing him to go home. After four years, he should have known better than to try and fool Blair. Ever since they'd taken their relationship beyond friendship, it seemed as if they were even more deeply in tune with one another.

Pulling his jacket closer around himself, Jim exited the truck and walked sluggishly to the entrance of his building, muscles aching with every step, unsuccessfully trying to dodge the steadily falling raindrops. Once inside, he took the elevator up to his loft, leaning wearily against the wall until the car deposited him on the third floor.

Feeling more tired by the moment, Jim unlocked the door to #307 and let himself inside. With thoughts of a hot shower and a warm bed occupying his mind, Jim barely registered the slight tingling and itching sensation on his palm as he released the doorknob, and scratched absently at it as he closed the door behind him.

Around the corner from #307 a man emerged from the shadows. The portable white noise generator held in his gloved hand masked his presence from the Sentinel inside. Walking softly up to the door, the man withdrew a damp cloth from his pocket and carefully wiped the doorknob clean, dropping the cloth into a plastic bag and sealing it, before vanishing back into the shadows.

Inside the loft, oblivious to the presence outside his door, Jim removed his wet jacket and shoes, then trudged slowly upstairs to his bedroom. He stripped down to his boxers, sneezing twice in the process, then grabbed a white t-shirt, soft gray sweatpants and fresh socks from his dresser drawers. Gathering up his clothes, Jim began to descend the stairs, heading for the bathroom and his hot shower.

But halfway down an intense wave of dizziness slammed into him. Jim stumbled and lost his balance, clothes falling from his grasp as he grabbed the railing with both hands, trying to keep himself from tumbling down the stairs. He closed his eyes, breathing fast, remaining motionless until the dizziness passed.

When the feeling subsided, Jim carefully opened his eyes and worked to slow his breathing. Finally realizing he was sicker than he'd wanted to admit, he bent to retrieve his fallen clothes and continue on to the bathroom. But he only made it as far as the living room before the dizziness engulfed him once again. He staggered sideways and hit the edge of the couch, just as an incredibly sharp pain knifed through his stomach.

Jim gasped and fell to his knees, one arm wrapped around his stomach, the other hand braced on the floor. The stomach pain increased, followed by nausea, and Jim's limbs began to tremble.

Aware that something was seriously wrong, he fought against the dizziness and turned himself around on hands and knees. Breath coming in harsh pants and face twisted with pain, Jim crawled to the coffee table, where the cordless phone was laying on top. As his arms gave out and he collapsed, he lunged and knocked the phone to the floor with him.

Sweating profusely now, Jim grasped the phone and concentrated fiercely, pressing a well-used speed dial number. After two rings a familiar voice answered.

"Cascade Police Department, Jim Ellison's desk. Blair Sandburg speaking."

Closing his eyes in relief, Jim gritted his teeth against the pain and struggled to stay conscious.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

His voice barely above a whisper, Jim managed two words before losing the battle against the encroaching darkness.

"...Chief...help..."

"...im? Jim? Can you hear me?"

Blair's panicked, concerned voice briefly broke through the fog Jim was floating in and he slowly opened his eyes. He registered the wail of a siren, the faint flash of lights, and the sway of the soft surface beneath him that had to be a stretcher in a moving ambulance. The familiar, soothing presence of Blair beside him, holding his hand, drew him like a beacon in the darkness.

"Jim! Thank god...You're gonna be OK, hear me? We're almost at the hospital. Hang in there..."

Staring up into Blair's wide blue eyes, Jim squeezed the younger man's hand. Unable to summon the energy to speak, Jim let the gesture speak for him before drifting back into unconsciousness.

Jostled as he was taken from the ambulance and wheeled inside the hospital, Jim awoke for a moment, catching a snippet of conversation between Blair and a doctor.

"...any allergies? Is he on any medication?"

"No, no...but he's been sick, had the flu..."

Confident his Guide would watch over him, Jim let his eyes drift closed again.

Blair Sandburg paced the waiting room, wearing a hole in the cracked and faded linoleum, making Joel Taggert tired just watching him. The younger man raked a hand through his long curls in frustration.

"What's taking them so long, Joel? This is more serious than the flu. Something's wrong, I know it."

"Then you'd be right."

Blair abruptly stopped pacing and spun around as Joel turned his head toward the unfamiliar male voice that interrupted their conversation. A thirty-something, brown-haired, green-eyed man in a white lab coat approached, holding out his hand to Blair.

"Mr. Sandburg?" Blair nodded and introduced Joel. "I'm Dr. Forrester," the man continued. "I've been put in charge of Detective Ellison's case."

"What is it? What's wrong with him?" Blair demanded.

Dr. Forrester gestured to the chairs. "Please, let's sit down and I'll tell you what I know."

Once all three men were seated, Dr. Forrester looked at Blair and Joel, concern etched on his face despite his practiced mask of professional detachment. "Detective Ellison's condition is not caused by the flu, though his weakened immune system may be detrimental in the long run."

"What do you mean?" questioned Joel.

Dr. Forrester took a breath. "Simply put, he's been poisoned."

"What?!"
"How?"

Dr. Forrester held up a hand. "We're still running tests, so I don't have anything conclusive for you yet. What I do know is that Detective Ellison is showing signs of pesticide poisoning. We were unable to detect any injection sites on his body, so we're running under the assumption that the poison was absorbed through his skin. And there is a small, red patch on his right palm."

Blair ran a hand over his face, trying to digest the news. Joel reached over and squeezed his arm before questioning the doctor again.

"So what happens now? Will Jim be all right? What are you doing for him?"

Dr. Forrester laced his fingers together, looked down at the floor, then back up again. "Detective Ellison's blood work shows a variety of chemicals, which could be indicative of several types of poisons. But as of yet we haven't been able to determine what those poisons are and in what quantity they were administered. And until we do, we can only treat the symptoms, not administer an antidote."

"Just how serious is this?" Blair demanded.

"I'm afraid the prognosis isn't good," Dr. Forrester answered frankly. "Unless the poisons are identified by our labs, or a sample is brought to us for analysis so that an antitoxin can be developed...Detective Ellison may have no more than 24 hours to live."

Blair exploded up out of his chair, shaking his head while stalking across the room. "No, no..." He turned to face the two men. "This can't be happening..." he denied.

Joel started to rise from his chair. "Blair..."

Blair closed his eyes and held up his hands, forestalling Joel's motion. He took a moment then opened his eyes, looking directly at Dr. Forrester.

"Does he know?" Blair asked softly.

The young doctor nodded. "He asked me to tell you."

"Can I see him?"

"Of course. There are some things I'd like to discuss with you both."

Blair glanced over at Joel. The older man nodded. "Go on. I've got some phone calls to make."

Blair gave a small smile. "Thanks, Joel." Then he turned and followed Dr. Forrester to Jim's room.

Joel sat for a moment, trying to absorb the disturbing news, before rising and walking down the hallway and out of the hospital. Finding a quiet spot away from the Emergency entrance, thankful the rain had finally stopped, he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a familiar number. The call was answered after three rings.

"Simon? It's Joel. You need to get on the first plane back here..."

Jim opened his eyes at the sound of his hospital room door opening. Blair stood there for a moment, eyes wide, before closing the short distance to Jim's bed. The Sentinel summoned what he hoped was a reassuring smile and held out his hand to his Guide. Blair took it instantly, squeezing tightly.

"Doctor told you what's going on?" Jim asked.

Blair nodded. "Yeah. How're you feeling?"

Jim gave a crooked grin. "Better than I look."

Blair laughed weakly, taking in his partner's pale, sweaty face. "Good thing, man, or we'd really be in trouble."

Dr. Forrester, who had entered the room behind Blair, cleared his throat. Jim and Blair turned at the sound.

"So what's the bottom line?" Jim queried the doctor. "Where do we go from here?"

"We're in the process of admitting you for more extensive tests and observation..." Dr. Forrester began.

Jim started shaking his head, struggling to sit up. "No, no...I'm not about to lie here in this bed and do nothing."

"Detective, you're a sick man," Dr. Forrester tried to point out. "I don't think you realize..."

Jim, now sitting on the edge of the bed with Blair's help, pointed a finger at the doctor. "No, you don't realize. You told me the best way to create an antitoxin was to actually have a sample of the poison here, correct?"

"Yes, that's right."

"I'm a cop. I have the resources and the people to make that happen. But I can't run an investigation cooped up in some hospital room." Jim paused to catch his breath. "Besides, can you guarantee me that if I stay here your labs will find the antidote?"

Dr. Forrester's mouth tightened. "No," he admitted.

Jim nodded, then looked at the wall clock. It was just past noon. "Tell you what. If I haven't come up with anything by midnight tonight I'll come back and let you have another go at me."

"If you haven't collapsed first."

Blair, silent throughout the exchange, spoke up. "How bad will this get?"

Dr. Forrester sighed, putting his hands inside the pockets of his white lab coat. "Like I said before, we seem to be dealing with a combination of pesticides, so I can only give you general symptoms."

Jim nodded. "Go on."

Dr. Forrester ticked them off one by one, like some demented grocery list. "Nausea, vomiting, fever, excessive sweating, fatigue, stomach pains, difficulty in breathing, convulsions, coma...then death. I estimate from 16 to 18 hours before Detective Ellison slips into a coma."

There was silence in the room as Dr. Forrester finished. Jim nodded his head slowly. "Thanks, Doc," he said softly, then turned to look at Blair.

Sensing he was now an unwanted presence, Dr. Forrester headed for the door. "You're free to leave whenever you're ready, Detective. I'll see you this evening. Hopefully sooner, with good news."

Blair waited until the door closed before moving even closer to Jim, reaching out to clasp both of his hands, before speaking softly but with intense emotion.

"I love you," he said simply to the man before him - the other half of himself.

"I love you, too. And that's why I'm not planning on dying anytime soon. Most certainly not today." Jim reached up and framed Blair's face with his hands. "Especially when we have nearly four years of lost time to make up for..."

Then they were leaning towards each other, meeting in the middle. The kiss was soft and lingering, each man giving strength to the other for the life and death battle to come. Moving apart long minutes later, Sentinel and Guide rested their foreheads together.

"C'mon, partner," Jim whispered. "We've got work to do."

Cascade PD
12:30 PM

Joel marched purposefully into the Major Crime bullpen, a man with a mission. Behind him, Jim and Blair proceeded at a slower, but equally determined pace. The atmosphere in the bullpen was charged with emotion. Joel's phone call to Rafe prior to leaving the hospital had spelled out the situation to the rest of the detectives in the squad - one of their own needed help.

The frenetic activity in the room all but ceased when the three men entered, all eyes on the too-pale man in the middle. But before anyone could speak, Joel began barking out orders. "Rafe! Brown! Simon's office, both of you. Rhonda! What's the status on those files?"

"Still pulling them, sir," the attractive blond woman replied immediately from her desk.

Joel nodded as he strode past her into Simon's office. "Come get me when they're ready."

Blair, the last inside, closed the door behind him. As the five men took seats around the conference table, Jim looked across at Brown and Rafe.

"From the commotion out there I assume Joel filled you in on what's happening?"

Rafe ran a hand uncaringly through his normally perfect hair, his features grim. "Yeah, he did."

"We will catch whoever did this to you," Brown vowed, his handsome black face uncharacteristically serious.

Jim gave a tired smile. "Never doubted it for a minute, H."

Then a sudden coughing fit doubled Jim over, hacking and wheezing, propelling Blair from his chair. The young man quickly poured a glass of water from the pitcher in the center of the table and placed it in a trembling hand, encouraging his partner to take small sips. There were a few tense moments until Jim was able to get his breathing back to normal.

As Jim leaned back in his chair, Blair placed a supportive hand on the detective's arm and looked over at Joel. "What do you have everyone doing?"

Joel pulled his worried gaze away from Jim to address Blair. "First, I called Simon. He and Megan are trying to get on the first flight back here. I've got Serena over at the loft now, going over it and Jim's truck with a fine-toothed comb, trying to find any trace of the poison." He shook his head. "But it's like looking for a needle in a haystack. It could be on anything Jim touched. But she'll turn the place upside down, nevertheless. She's already cleaned off Jim's desk. Bagged everything and took it to forensics. Her lab guys are going over everything now, looking for any residue."

Brown picked up the conversation. "Rafe, Rhonda and I are having all of Ellison's case files pulled and sorted. When someone tries to kill a cop, you've gotta think of revenge as the number one motive."

Blair gave a low whistle. "All of them for the past eight years? With Jim's arrest record? That's got to be hundreds and hundreds of files! That's gonna take time, and we don't have much of it, guys."

Joel pointed toward the bullpen, and every man in the room looked through the window at the hustle of bodies on the other side. "That's why I've pulled every available detective in here. If they're not going though those files, looking for possible suspects, they're on the phone to their snitches. There may be word on the street about a hit on Jim." Joel paused. "We know it's a race against time, Blair. But when has Major Crime ever lost a race, eh? And we don't plan on starting now."

Blair lightly squeezed Jim's arm as the older man spoke for them both. "Thanks, Joel..." He was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Rhonda.

"The last of the files are here, sir."

"Thanks, Rhonda." Joel put his hands on the table and stood up, grim determination etched on his face. Brown and Rafe followed suit. Joel looked at the detectives standing next to him. "As you come across any files where the perp made threats against Jim, bring them in to me. Especially those who've served time and been released. But even if they're still locked up bring me the file. Unfortunately, we all know a hit can be orchestrated from the inside. OK, let's get to work."

Rafe and Brown nodded, making for the door. "We're on it." "Hang in there, Jim."

Jim rose a bit unsteadily to his feet. "C'mon Chief, we've got work to do, too."

"Where do you want to start?"

"With a few phone calls of our own. If anyone's got any information, it'll be Sneaks."

Cascade PD
3:00 PM

Jim closed the bathroom stall door behind him and walked on shaky legs the short distance to the sinks. He braced himself there for a moment, head hanging, as small tremors raced through his body. Using one hand to turn on the cold water, he rinsed his mouth out several times then reached for a paper towel. As he blotted the water and sweat from his face, he carefully extended his hearing. The Sentinel picked up on his Guide's presence immediately. Blair was still standing right outside the bathroom door, barring anyone entrance until Jim came back out, understanding the detective's need for privacy as he lost the contents of his stomach.

Lowering the paper towel from his face, Jim caught sight of himself in the mirror. He really did look as bad as he felt now. Despite the effects of the poison on his senses, he could easily tell that his fever had worsened. His pale face was now continuously coated in a fine sheen of moisture, and red-rimmed eyes stared back at him, their normally bright blue color now glazed and dull. He raised his left hand up to eye level and watched as it shook involuntarily. His features hardened and he closed the hand into a fist before striking it down on the edge of the white porcelain sink.

Off to his right, the bathroom door opened partway and Blair's face appeared around the edge. "Jim?"

"Yeah, Chief?"

"Rafe just came by, looking for us. They've finished going through the files and pulled three possibles."

Jim pushed himself wearily away from the sink. "Right. Let's see what we've got."

The same five men reassembled themselves around the same conference table five minutes later. Three manila file folders took center stage.

"Who are our winners?" Jim began.

Joel picked up the first file folder and flipped it open. "Samuel Pierson. Age 32. You busted him back in Vice. Ring any bells?"

Jim tilted his head, thinking, then nodded. "Yeah, I remember. He was a dealer I collared in a drug bust. The raid went bad and a gunfight broke out. One of my shots hit Samuel's younger brother, a pusher himself." Jim paused. "The kid died on the operating table and Samuel swore he'd get even with me."

Joel nodded. "The threats he made to you in court were recorded. He was also released three months ago. That's why his file jumped out at us."

Jim indicated the other two folders. "Who else jumped out at you?"

Rafe picked up the next folder. "This is a case both you and Sandburg worked on. Do you remember Monique St. James?"

Blair sat up straighter in his chair. "How could I forget? She nearly broke my nose out on that Coast Guard island." Blair looked over at Jim. "That was one pissed off lady. She didn't appreciate getting caught by you, me and Rucker."

"Exactly," Rafe agreed. "And now she's out on parole and possibly looking for a little payback. After all, she did try to kill both of you out in the woods."

Jim tapped the remaining file. "And who's our last lucky contestant?"

Brown slid the file in front of himself. "This one goes back a ways, Jim, when you were still a rookie. Do you recall Martin Collins?"

Jim blew out a breath and leaned back in his chair. "Collins? There's one I'm not likely to forget."

Blair looked at the men around the table. "What happened?"

Brown picked up the story. "It was a murder case. Collins was accused of killing his wife. Jim was the first officer on the scene and Collins attacked him, accusing Jim of murdering his wife. Collins got himself a fast-talking lawyer and the jury found him not guilty by reason of insanity. He'd been serving his sentence at the psychiatric hospital downstate instead of in a jail cell."

"Had been?" Blair questioned.

Brown closed the file. "He was released last month and is back living in Cascade."

"He never changed his story throughout the trial," Jim recalled. "Insisted over and over that it was me who'd killed his wife. After his sentence was handed down and they were leading him out of the courtroom, he kept screaming he'd kill me." Jim shook his head. "My first nutcase." He gathered up the files and looked at the names once more. "Good job sorting through everything. I agree with the choices."

"Do we have current addresses on all of them?" Blair questioned.

"We do on Pierson and Collins," Joel answered. "And we know St. James is in the area, but we're still trying to track her down."

Jim redistributed the files, looking over at the acting captain. "I'd like to take Collins and have Brown and Rafe take Pierson, pull them in for questioning."

Joel looked doubtful. "Are you sure you're up to this, Jim?"

"I have to be, Joel. I just can't sit here and do nothing."

"All right, but the minute you start feeling worse, I want you off the street. Understood?"

"Understood."

Joel looked over at Blair. "I expect you to make sure your partner keeps his word."

Blair nodded as Brown smiled and muttered, "Like that was ever in doubt."

Rafe slid a set of keys across the table to Blair. "Forensics is through going over Jim's truck. They didn't find anything, so it's OK to drive. It's in the parking garage, level three."

"Thanks, man."

Jim pushed his chair back and stood. "What are we waiting for? Let's go get our suspects."

Blair glanced over from the driver's side of the pickup truck. "What was that address again, Jim?"

The detective brushed away the sweat from his face with his shirt sleeve and held up the piece of paper. "1515 Davie," he replied, then shifted slightly to look at Blair. "Collins is a head case, Chief. Who knows what he'll do when he sees me. I want you to stay in the truck..."

"NO," Blair shot back, taking his eyes off the road momentarily. "No way, Jim. Not this time. Look at you. You can't do this alone. If he bolts you're gonna need help. That's what partners are for. Right?"

Blair stared hard at Jim, daring the older man to deny it. But Jim simply rested his head against the cool metal of the doorjamb. "Right, Chief," he agreed. "But you're still staying behind me," he said with a smile.

Fifteen minutes later, Blair pulled the truck into the alley next to the apartment building where Collins lived. Both men exited the truck and began the short walk, side by side, to the building's entrance. Blair turned his head to look up at the five-story building.

"He's on the second floor, right, Jim?"

"Yeah, number - ahh, God!"

Blair spun around at Jim's cry, just as his partner started to crumple to the ground. The smaller man reacted instinctively, trying to catch the bigger man. But Jim's heavier bulk pulled Blair off balance and they both fell to the pavement. Blair righted himself instantly, scooting over to where Jim lay curled into a fetal position, arms wrapped around his stomach. The detective's eyes were tightly closed, face twisted in pain.

"Jim! Jim!" Blair lifted the bigger man's head and shoulders up so that Jim's upper body lay in Blair's lap. "What is it, Jim? What's wrong?"

Jim's arms wrapped themselves even more tightly around his stomach. "Hurts..." he gasped. "Oh, God, it hurts..."

Jim's pain-filled words constricted Blair's heart. His lover was the strongest, most stoic man Blair knew, and for him to admit he was hurting, it had to be bad. Very bad. When Jim began to tremble, Blair leaned forward and covered as much of his body with his own as he could. Desperately afraid Jim was going to go into convulsions, Blair reached blindly for Jim's hand.

"Jim, give me your hand, man, please..."

It took Jim a moment to let go of his stomach, but then he latched onto Blair's hand like a lifeline, with bruising intensity. Blair winced at the powerful grip, but nodded his head, which was resting on Jim's shoulder.

"That's it, Jim. Now I want you to listen to me, OK?" Blair ordered gently, slipping easily into his role as Guide. "I want you to concentrate on my voice. Only my voice. Tune everything else out. Don't think about the pain, only my voice. I'm right here, just listen to my voice...dial everything else down..."

But Jim's shaking only got worse, not better. "Not working..." he panted. "Can't do it..."

"No! Don't you dare give up on me, Jim. You can do this. Concentrate. Just listen to my voice and ignore everything else. C'mon, you can do this..." Blair's voice continued in a soothing monotone.

Long, agonizing moments later, Jim's tremors slowed, then subsided. The Sentinel's body went limp in his Guide's embrace and his arm uncurled from around his stomach. Blair straightened up and brushed a hand over Jim's short hair.

"Jim?" he said quietly.

The exhausted man let out a long breath and squeezed Blair's hand. "Yeah, Chief, I'm with you."

Blair let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "God, man, you scared me."

Jim struggled to sit up and Blair helped until he was in an upright position. Jim brushed his knuckles across Blair's cheek. "Scared myself," he admitted, then leaned forward and kissed Blair gently. "Thanks, Chief," he breathed.

Blair smiled weakly. "Anytime, man. Just...let's not make a habit of this, OK?"

Jim grinned back, face still drawn and pale. "Sounds good to me. Now help me up and let's go do what we came here to do."

"Whoa, hang on a minute," Blair protested as he helped Jim to his feet. "You're in no condition...you're not ready..."

"You're my backup, aren't you, Sandburg?" Jim interrupted. Blair nodded and Jim reached out and gently squeezed his upper arm. "Then I'm ready."

**********