Big thank yous from Mega to JET, for jumping in and making a story out of what might have stayed a lonely little group of scenes forever. Also thank you to Becky, for her support and input, and Robyn, for the answers to the medical-type questions. Look! It's done! :-D

"You stay in the truck, Sandburg!"

Ellison was in Supercop Mode, the tone of his voice leaving absolutely no room for argument. Blair humbly pulled the passenger door of the truck closed and settled obediently back into his seat, watching with undisguised concern as his partner charged into the liquor store where a holdup was reportedly in progress.

As Blair sulked, he heard sirens and knew the backup he'd called for was on the way. But would they be in time? He leaned close to the truck's window, trying to peer through the tinted glass of the storefront, looking for some sign that Jim had the situation under control. He got his answer a moment later when a body came crashing through the glass. Blue jacket, close-cropped brown hair....

"JIM!"

Well, he had stayed in the truck...for a few minutes. As he quickly threw open the passenger door, Blair subconsciously began to plan out his defense for later, when Jim would bellow at him for not following orders. He hurried to the side of his fallen partner, who was slowly and groggily trying to sit up. The big man was gasping, apparently having had the wind knocked out of him when he hit the sidewalk.

"Sandb...Sand...get back in...truck," Jim panted, trying to tug at Blair's jacket, urging him back toward the vehicle.

"Shh, easy man, just keep still." Blair pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to a small but bloody gash over the Sentinel's left eye, using his free hand to push against Jim's chest. He didn't know if the detective had sustained serious injury, but, until they found out, he knew letting the big man move was a bad idea.

In a small corner of his mind, Sandburg was aware that two patrol cars were now parked at the curb across the street. He glanced up as the officers came charging, drawing their weapons en route. The anthropologist briefly wondered what had become of their perpetrator. They had to be dealing with some tough customer, if he could throw Jim Ellison through a window like that. The Sentinel wasn't exactly a featherweight.

"Just lie still for a minute, Jim, the other officers are here now." Blair used his Guide voice, keeping his tone low and soothing as he stroked a hand across his partner's brow. The sky-blue eyes suddenly widened, accompanied by a sharp intake of air from the still-dazed Ellison. Blair quickly removed his hand thinking he'd caused the other man pain through his touch.

"Sand... behind...!" Jim gasped, straining again to sit up.

Sandburg was just trying to decipher his partner's agitation when he sensed motion behind him. Before he could turn, an arm snaked around his neck, and he was dragged forcefully to his feet. Immediately his hands flew to the arm that was half-strangling him, and a moment later, he winced as he felt a gun's muzzle pressed to his temple.

"Back off, pigs! You all back off, NOW, or he gets it!" A loud and decidedly psychotic-sounding voice bellowed in Blair's ear, and he flinched.

I guess this answers the question of the whereabouts of our perp, Blair thought miserably as he was lifted partly off the ground. The pressure under his chin was painful, and he couldn't hold back a small moan. He hooked his hands over the massive arm and managed to create enough leverage to ease the discomfort a little. In front of him, the two uniformed officers were holding their guns up, slowly moving back in compliance with the criminal's demands.

Blair caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head slightly, despite the hard gun barrel digging into his skin. He watched Jim slowly moving into a crouch, one hand reaching stealthily for the second secret weapon concealed in the big man's ankle holster. The cop's face was stony as he stared at Blair, but the anthropologist could still see the concern that creased the older man's brow, and the ever-present twitch of his jaw.

"I mean it! Everyone! Back off, or I'll kill him! I swear, I'll do him right here!" The perp was still screaming, now moving his gun from Blair's head to aim at the retreating uniforms. The two officers dove for cover, ducking behind the shelter of Jim's truck.

Sandburg's ears had begun to ring from the grip around his neck, inhibiting the blood flow to his brain. His lungs burned slightly from his diminished supply of oxygen. But through it all, he still heard his partner's voice, loud and clear.

"Let him go." The Sentinel stalked forward, his gun never wavering as he aimed at the frantic would-be crook. "I've made this shot before and I can make it again." Jim paused, as if giving his adversary time to think it over.

Blair felt the arm around his neck loosen almost imperceptibly, and a faint glimmer of hope filled his soul. He locked eyes with Jim and gave a tiny nod, encouraging his partner to continue. If Jim saw Blair's signal he did not acknowledge it. He simply took another casual step forward.

"Come on now," the detective said gently. "I don't want to kill you, but I will if you make me. Right now all we have you for is attempted robbery, assaulting an officer and resisting arrest. All you gotta do is let go of him and drop your weapon. Then you'll be taken into custody. If you don't, you'll be dead." Jim smiled mildly and cocked his head. "It's up to you, sport. What do you say?"

Blair felt the man holding him go utterly still, as if weighing his chances. The young Shaman was pleading silently to himself, mentally urging his attacker to do the wise thing. His heart soared as the arm around his neck loosened further, allowing his feet to settle more firmly on the sidewalk. He was about to congratulate the man on making the right decision, when a hand suddenly grabbed the back of his neck and thrust him forward.

"SCREW YOU, COP!"

Blair staggered from the force of the shove. He closed his eyes as he lost his footing and stumbled, his forward momentum too swift for his feet to keep up. He was falling, tumbling face-first toward the hard concrete...

Then in a rush, a strong arm caught him up, encircling his waist and swinging him upright. He caught a brief glimpse of Jim's face as the big man pulled him against his side, half-turning to place himself between Blair and the retreating perp. The grad student instinctively wrapped his arms around Jim's middle, flinching and pressing his face against the larger man's shoulder as the backup officers leapt up and opened fire.

"No! Don't shoot! NO!!!"

The harsh and unexpected cry from Detective Ellison came several seconds too late. There was a brief silence as the echoes of the gunshots faded, broken by the sound of a body falling to the ground. Blair lifted his head slowly, loosening his hold as Jim's arm slipped from around his waist. He watched as his partner moved wearily toward the dead criminal, tucking his gun back into his shoulder holster. The cop turned, motioning toward the uniformed officers before turning back to the fallen perp. There was look of sadness on the big man's face that confused Blair, and he stepped forward to ask what was wrong.

His inquiry was forgotten when, looking down, things became clearer. The dead "man" was a boy, of no more than fifteen, judging by the youthful face. An incredibly large and powerful boy, but a boy nonetheless. Dead, at fifteen years old. The gun he had held to Blair's head was in two halves on the sidewalk beside its owner, the exposed interior colored a happy, cheerful orange. It was a sharp contrast to the outer layer of black spray paint that had been used to transform a harmless toy into an equally harmless gun. Blair hugged himself against a sudden chill that seemed to come from inside his bones. Fifteen.... Dead holding a toy gun....

"Sandburg, get back in the truck."

The words were so curt, so cold, that for a moment Blair didn't realize they had come from his partner. Confused, but not willing to upset his friend any further, he obeyed without question. As he slid into the passenger seat, he watched Jim speak with the backup officers. The Sentinel seemed listless and immeasurably tired as he patted one of the men on the back before turning back to the truck.

Blair's eyes followed his partner as Jim came around to the driver's side of the truck. As the older man climbed in, the anthropologist opened his mouth to ask what had gone on inside the shop. But Ellison just held up a hand, demanding silence with a gesture, and Sandburg wisely clamed up. Not a word was spoken as Jim started the truck and pulled away, heading for home.

It was nearing dinner time as they pulled up at the loft. Jim hadn't said a word the entire trip home. Blair hadn't pushed; he'd been around the Sentinel long enough to know the signs. The big man's body language was screaming 'I don't want to talk about it.' After the days events, the young anthropologist realized that he was only to happy to comply.

Dinner was prepared in a similar silence, the lack of their usual kitchen banter like a black vacuum that chilled the air. At the same time, the air between them seemed to fairly sizzle with unexpressed emotions. Something had to give, and soon, Blair reasoned as he dumped Brussels sprouts from the steamer into a serving bowl. He carried the bowl to the table and set it down, nervously fidgeting with the silverware Jim had laid out. As he turned to get glasses from the cupboard, he accidentally bumped into his roommate.

"Damn it, Sandburg! Why don't you watch where the hell you're going!" Jim barked as the napkins dropped from his hands to flutter to the floor.

"Sorry," Blair muttered, holding his hands up to ward off the bad vibes radiating from his partner. "Do you want me to stay out of the kitchen so I won't be in your way?" He asked, backing up and leaning against the kitchen island. He saw Jim stiffen, large hands clenching and wrinkling the napkins he'd retrieved from the floor. Blair could hear the air whistling in and out of the big man's nose and recognized it as one of the relaxation techniques he'd taught the Sentinel soon after they'd met. "Jim?"

"Out of my way, eh? What a very novel and creative idea, Blair." Jim murmured under his breath, chuckling without a trace of humor as he laid the crushed napkins beside his plate.

Sandburg just stared, confused by the harsh tone, cold feeling returning to his bones and working its way down into his belly. "Wh...what do you mean?" he stammered. He suspected he didn't want the answer. As he watched his partner straightening and re-straightening the silverware, he knew it even more. "Jim?"

"What, Blair? What?!" Jim snapped, turning to him at last and backing him up to the island. "What do you want me to say?" He stood stock still for a few seconds, just breathing hard through his nose, staring down at Blair with fire in his eyes.

Sandburg leaned back, trying to put distance between himself and his obviously furious roommate. A part of him knew that Jim was just upset about the case, not really angry at him... or was he?

"Jim, are you mad at me?" he asked quietly. Then he jumped with a small yelp as the larger man slammed a hand down on the counter with resonating force.

"Yes, I'm mad at you! What the hell do you think?" Jim demanded. He turned away from a shocked Blair to stalk in an aimless path across the living room. The detective's voice had taken on that soft, deadly quality usually reserved for questioning suspects. Sandburg wanted more than anything to turn and walk into his room and close the door. To give the Sentinel space and time to cool off. He couldn't move, his feet felt rooted to the floorboards. So he stayed, watching silently as Jim paced, every so often tossing a glare in Blair's direction.

"Sandburg, what did I tell you to do right before I got out of the truck?" Ellison paused and clasped his hands behind his back, waiting for a reply.

"I...you... you said to stay in the truck?" Blair whispered, eyes wide. He didn't like this side of Jim.

"Right. Simple instructions. Stay. In. The. Truck." Jim smiled and shook his head, reaching up to scratch at his scalp. "But you didn't do that now, did you?

"No," Jim drawled as Blair shook his head. "No, as usual, you didn't listen to me. And it put you in danger...again." Jim moved to rest his hands on the back of the couch and hunched over, as if trying to draw strength from the piece of furniture.

"Y-you were hurt," Blair stammered, "You were hurt, and...and...I just wanted to help..."

"Oh, sure. You just wanted to help." Ellison turned back toward Blair and stalked forward. "You helped all right. Helped a boy right into a grave at age fifteen." Jim raised his eyebrows inquisitively. "How do you feel now? Still want to help?"

The big man's face was as rigid as stone, but Blair could see the barely-controlled wetness gathering in the corners of the ice blue eyes. He was fighting down tears of his own as he tried to fathom what Jim was saying.

"Helped him into...how?" Blair asked helplessly, hands reaching almost unconsciously toward his partner as the larger man turned his back. "Jim, please, I don't understand!"

Ellison whirled on him fiercely, and for one disbelieving moment, Blair thought he was going to be hit. He recoiled instinctively, but Jim kept his distance. Sandburg watched as the big man closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, apparently making a conscious effort to calm himself before speaking again.

"Sandburg," Jim began, obviously struggling to keep his voice even and low. "Backup had already arrived when I got pushed through the window. If you had stayed in the truck, then the other two officers would have had no trouble taking that boy down without hurting him, at least not badly." The detective took another deep breath, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

"I knew as soon as he pushed you at me that he wasn't carrying a real gun." Rubbing weary hands over a haggard, aged-looking face, the Sentinel stalked slowly across the room to gaze out over his city. "But I didn't have time to warn the other officers. I was too busy catching you."

Blair was still leaning back against the counter, trembling slightly as the implications of what Jim was saying coursed through his mind. It's my fault. It's my fault that boy is dead.

"Jim I... I'm sorry. I didn't think about any of that." Blair looked up as his partner turned and walked towards him again. The big man paused near the door, weaving slightly as if trying to decide which way to turn. In the end, he plucked his jacket off the rack by the wall and turned to open the door.

"I'm going out now, Sandburg. You are not to follow me." Jim thrust his arms almost violently into the long sleeves as he spoke, his voice without emotion or warmth of any sort. "While I'm out, I intend to do some thinking, and I want you to do the same. I think we both need to decide if this partnership is still worth the trouble."

Blair gasped audibly at that, feeling as if Jim had stabbed him through the gut. His reaction went unnoticed or unheeded as his partner zipped up his coat and turned to leave. Sandburg started toward him, desperate to try and resolve the conflict and restore their relationship before it was too late.

"Jim? Jim wait, man, can't we talk about this?" Blair pleaded, hands outstretched, imploring. His heart felt like it was about to shatter into pieces as he watched a range of emotions from sadness to anger to disappointment pass in rapid succession over his friend's face. Ellison just stood in the doorway for a long minute, head bowed as if deep in thought. He glanced up at Blair briefly, then closed his eyes again with a tired sigh.

"Eat your dinner, Sandburg. I'll be back later. Maybe." With that, Jim Ellison strode out of the loft and slammed the door behind him with a reverberating bang that shook the walls.

The anthropologist jumped as the loud sounds echoed off the high ceilings, seeming to make his very bones shake. The shaking didn't stop as he walked numbly over to the table and settled tiredly into one of the chairs. He just sat there, staring at his empty plate without seeing, feeling the weight of what his actions had caused crushing his heart. Tears came without warning to his eyes, but they were blinked away without falling.

Heaving a miserable sigh, Blair reached out and began to prepare two plates from the rapidly cooling dinner he and Jim had prepared. He wondered idly if it would be the last of its kind. When both plates were filled, he moved to the refrigerator with both. He placed Jim's inside for later and slid his own into the tiny microwave that resided atop the ancient white appliance.

As he waited for his food, Blair wandered aimlessly around the loft, ending up in the living room. He picked up a small framed picture from on top of the television set, running his fingers lovingly over the glass. It was the picture Simon had taken of him and Jim on the fishing trip. All right, my little guppy....

A sharp ding from the microwave ended his sad reverie, and Blair set the picture lovingly back in its place of honor. He trudged wearily back into the kitchen and robotically removed his plate from the microwave amidst a small cloud of steam. The edges of the plate were hot, stinging his fingers as he sat down with it at the table. The pain in his heart far outweighed it.

With one last, hopeful look toward the door, Blair picked up his fork and began to follow Jim's instructions.

Ellison had only taken five steps down the hall before his conscience slammed him upside the head. He almost reeled with the power of it, his mind playing the cruel words he'd said to his friend over and over like a sadistic disk jockey. He'd heard the kid's heart rate slam into the stratosphere when he'd hinted at wanting to end their partnership.

You're a troll, Ellison. An honest to goodness, world-class troll.

He almost turned around right then and there, to go back to the home he had shared with his best friend and Guide these last few years. Whether it was shame or cowardice that held him back and propelled him toward the elevator, he couldn't say. But he knew going back into that loft was not an option, not yet.

As he viciously jabbed at the down button on the elevator's control panel, Jim saw again the sad travesty that had played out earlier that day. Over and over he heard that dead boy's desperate words. All he'd been after was a little extra cash to buy his brother a birthday gift. He hadn't planned to hurt anyone, he'd said. Obviously it was true, given the youngster's weapon of choice had probably been purchased at the local toy store.

The elevator was still a no-show, and Jim was not in a patient mood. He stormed down the hall to the stairwell, still going over and over the events of the day. He kept trying to come up with a scenario that would have left the teenager alive. If only Blair had stayed in the truck. If only he hadn't allowed the would-be robber to take him hostage. Why hadn't he, the Sentinel, noticed sooner that the gun was a toy?

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Blair's presence really would not have made much difference in the outcome of the holdup. If not Sandburg, the gunman would have grabbed some other nearby civilian. There had been several pedestrians on the sidewalk when the perp had tried to flee. One of them would have made just as easy a target as the young anthropologist.

Jim paused on the second step down, closing his eyes against a sudden throbbing in his head. Good God, what had he done? How could he have said such hurtful things to the man his life revolved around? Who's own life simultaneously revolved around Jim's? What was it in his nature that allowed this evil, evil side of him to escape from time to time? And why was Sandburg always on the receiving end? Was he trying for a reprise of that sad morning by the fountain at Rainier?

At that thought, he actually had to reach out and steady himself against the banister. The pain in his head was beginning to fade now, allowing him to think clearly again. He had to go back. He had to apologize to Blair, again, and hope that the young man would accept and allow him to mend the frayed edges of their friendship, again.

He turned to go back up the stairs, and paused yet again. Perhaps it would be best to wait a couple of hours, give both of them time to regroup and settle the emotions that still ran too close to the surface. Yes, he decided, heading down the stairs again. He'd go for a drive, maybe go pick up a sandwich at the deli, and think about exactly how lucky he was to have a friend like Blair.

"Jim...."

The soft voice brought him to a halt in mid-step. He looked around, but couldn't find the source of the female, hauntingly familiar voice. He knew the voice, from sometime recently. Part of a case?

"Hello?" Ellison called nervously, straining his ears in case the unseen lady spoke again. He stared, then blinked as a translucent figure shimmered into existence a few steps below him on the stairs. The light and color swirled for a moment before coalescing into the figure of Molly.

Jim sat down hard on the step, staring at the ghost. He hadn't seen or heard any sign of Molly since the closing of her murder case. He had been under the impression that she had "moved on" to the next spiritual plane, or whatever it was called.

But here she was, in the flesh. Well, not quite. In the ectoplasm? Ellison shook his head to clear the nonsensical thoughts that seemed to buzz around in his brain like mosquitoes. When he looked up again, Molly had come closer and was reaching out to him.

"Jim.... Go back.... He needs you!" Her ghostly eyes strained with emotion and fear, Molly pointed back up the stairs, toward the door to the loft. "Please Jim.... Hurry.... Blair needs you...."

Then, whatever power that allowed her to appear to the Sentinel must have been exhausted. The figure faded quickly from view, but not before silently mouthing one last, heartfelt request to the detective.

"He needs you...."

Then, with a faint glimmer of light, she vanished. Jim sat in the dark stairwell for a moment, wondering if he might finally be losing his mind. Visions of ghosts, pleas from beyond the grave. Shaking his head, he struggled to his feet and headed back up the stairs toward his home. His and Blair's home, he corrected himself.

As he walked down the hallway, he replayed Molly's words. Blair needed him. But he needed Blair more. It was a sad thing when a dead woman understood the strength of true friendship better than a living member of said friendship. Jim smiled faintly at the irony of it, his step lightening as he neared the door to 307.

Reaching out, he turned the knob and pushed. The door swung inward about six inches before meeting resistance. Jim started, and applied more pressure to the door. It felt like someone was trying to hold the door shut from the inside. Was Blair trying to keep him out? If so, why didn't he just put the chain on?

"Sandburg?" Jim called, annoyed. He pressed his shoulder against the door and prepared to force it open. Then his gaze traveled down to the floor. A limp arm and hand were visible, just inside the door. "BLAIR!"

Fear filling his heart, Jim gently pushed the door open a few more inches, taking care not to inflict any more damage on the unconscious figure of his best friend. When the gap between the door and the jamb was wide enough, he turned himself sideways and entered, carefully stepping over Blair's body.

As he knelt, his sharp eyes took in the surroundings, ears tuned in for the sounds of foreign heartbeats. He couldn't detect any signs of an intruder, but as he quickly scanned the loft he noticed small details. Blair's chair was overturned, as if he had stood up quickly. Several items had been knocked off of the kitchen island. Most disturbingly, the cordless phone lay shattered on the floor just beyond his Guide's limp fingers.

"Chief?" Jim called softly, running his hands over his partner's back, looking for injury. None were visible, but he still took great care in turning the young man over onto his back. He slapped lightly at the cool cheeks, feeling for a pulse. There was one, but it was unusually slow. Jim leaned down, intending to press an ear to Blair's chest. It was then that he noticed the bluish tinge that darkened Blair's lips. A similar tint was visible in the thin skin of his eyelids. Oxygen deprivation, but why?

Suddenly the absence of an expected sound shocked Jim's senses like a live wire. Blair wasn't breathing!

"Sandburg?" Jim called louder, shaking the young man by the shoulders. No response. The Sentinel straightened Blair's neck and shoulders. Then he slipped a hand beneath the young man's neck and gently lifted, arching his airway. Forming a seal with his lips over Blair's, Jim pinched his Guide's nose shut and exhaled. He was startled when the air backed into his own mouth, causing his cheeks to briefly balloon outward. "What the hell?"

Jim tried again to get air into his partner's lungs, to no avail. Something was wrong. Sensitive fingers glided over Blair's throat, and froze as they discovered a faint bulge just above the Adam's Apple. Ellison felt his blood run cold. His Guide was choking to death.

Trying to calm his pounding heart, Jim moved to straddle Blair's hips. He braced the heel of one hand against the young man's belly, just below his solar plexus, then laid the other hand over it. With measured pumps, he pressed steadily, four times, forcing whatever air was still in his partner's lungs against the blockage. After the compressions he leaned forward and tried again to breathe into Blair's lungs. He was met with the same resistance.

How long has it been? Jim's mind began to chant as he compressed Blair's chest again. How long has he been without oxygen? "...Two.... Three.... Four!" He counted with each pump. Has it been too long? Will he have brain damage?

"SHUT UP!" Jim screamed aloud. He leaned forward again and breathed into Blair's mouth, swallowing a sob of frustration and despair as the precious air flow was blocked again. "Oh, God, PLEASE!"

The deathly blue tinge was now creeping into Blair's cheeks. He was running out of time. Praying, tears streaming down his face, Jim placed his hands on Blair's torso again. He closed his eyes briefly and silently apologized for every wrong, every unkind word, every mean-spirited thing he'd done in his life. Then, taking a deep breath and tensing his shoulders, Jim thrust down and forward. "One.... Two...," On the third compression, he heard a tiny sound, almost like a cork coming out of a bottle. With the fourth, the beautiful sound of air passing through Blair's windpipe whistled like music to Sentinel ears.

"Yes!" Scrambling forward, Jim carefully pried Blair's mouth open and inserted two fingers, sweeping around, searching. There! His questing fingers found something that didn't belong. Something hard and round, like a little ball. He withdrew his hand and stared for a moment before tossing the large Brussels sprout away. His job wasn't finished yet; Blair still wasn't breathing.

"OK, kid, this time. This time, let's go now, ready?" Jim coached his insensate partner as he leaned over him, once more arching the young man's neck up and pinching off his nose. He closed his lips over Blair's and exhaled. His heart soared as he watched the smaller man's chest rise, then fall when he pulled back. He took another deep breath and repeated the actions, letting precious oxygen flow from his own lungs into those of his Guide. After four exhalations, the Sentinel sat back on his heels and watched, searching for any changes. He noted with overwhelming relief that the blue color was fading quickly from Blair's face.

"C'mon Chief, c'mon," Ellison chanted, briefly and chillingly reminded of a day not so long ago when he'd uttered those same words. And under nearly the same circumstances. He shook off the unpleasant memories and turned his attention back to his patient. "All right, this time. You can do it, buddy. Just take a breath, OK?"

He closed his eyes, leaned over, and began another set of breaths. Just as he removed his lips from Blair's, the young man's body stiffened briefly. Then, with a great whooping gasp, Sandburg began to cough furiously. The sounds seemed to emanate from deep down in the young man's chest, rattling painfully as his body tried to force out the last of the debris clogging his lungs.

Jim nearly collapsed on top of his young friend, suddenly weak with relief. Supporting himself on one elbow he laid over Blair like a protective blanket, moving one hand to gently brush the hair back from his Guide's forehead. The croaking, hacking coughs continued, making Jim's own chest hurt out of sympathy. He kept up the gentle stroking, hoping to make his partner's return to consciousness less traumatic.

After a minute, there was a lull in the coughing fit. Blair lay completely still, save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his body fought to replenish its oxygen supply. Then, the blue eyes slowly slid open and darted around in confusion. When they settled on Jim's face just inches away, the anthropologist's body went utterly still.

"Easy," Ellison soothed. Blair just gazed up at him for a moment. Then everything that had happened seemed to come back to him. His face crumpled, and a small sob managed its way past the battered throat.

"Shhh," Jim breathed, quickly sliding his arms around the young man's back and easing him into a sitting position. Blair leaned into him, pressing his cheek against Ellison's chest, clutching feebly at the folds of the big man's jacket as quiet sobs shook him from head to toe. Jim moved one hand to the back of the curl-covered head and began to stroke through the dark hair, rocking slightly. "Shhhh, buddy, it's okay.... It's all right, I gotcha.... I gotcha....." He held his crying Guide tightly for a few moments before gently sliding one arm under Blair's legs.

"Jim," Blair rasped, snuggling closer to his friend. "Ohh, Jim, I...." The rest of the phrase was buried under another sob, which in turn developed into a new fit of coughing.

"Shhh, it's okay." Ellison gathered the trembling figure up, holding him snugly against his chest. "Hold on to me." He felt one slender arm snake around his neck as Blair's other hand twisted itself more solidly into the front panel of Jim's coat. Carefully cradling the weakened young man in his arms, the Sentinel stood up slowly and headed for the living room. Sandburg clung to him, and Jim turned his head slightly to press a soft kiss against his Guide's temple. He nuzzled the soft curls, his low, gentle voice murmuring tender words of comfort with every step. Soon, he knelt beside the couch, easing his smaller partner down onto the cushions more gently than a mother with a newborn.

Sandburg refused to give up his hold on Jim's coat, so the older man calmly settled onto his knees next to the couch. Leaning over Blair, he rested his elbows on the cushion on either side of the young man's head. Still whispering soothingly, he cradled his partner's face in his hands and began brushing his thumbs along Blair's eyebrows, smoothing outward, trying to rub away the creases of fear and pain.

"You're okay.... Shhhh...." Jim ran the backs of his knuckles softly over the tear-dampened cheekbones, then brushed away the wetness under the blue eyes with the pads of his thumbs. "You're all right now, it's all over." The Sentinel drew back slightly as his friend's body was racked by another fit of coughing.

"Easy... easy now, just cough it out," Jim coached gently, never ceasing the loving caresses to his partner's face and hair. Tears had begun to leak from the anthropologist's eyes again, either from the spasms in his chest or just in the aftermath of coming so close to death.

Blair's hacking grew deeper and more painful-sounding. Jim sat up on the very edge of the couch, facing his partner, and pulled him carefully into a sitting position. As he had guessed, the coughing grew less intense. The detective reached around to rap gently between his friend's shoulder blades, trying to help loosen the congestion while simultaneously creating another excuse to hold his Guide close. He winced as he felt the harsh muscle spasms shake Blair's torso as he coughed again.

"Everything's okay." Jim turned his head and whispered into Blair's hair, slowly rocking. He rubbed his hand up and down the smaller man's back and cupped the other protectively to the back of his head. The young Shaman just rested limply against him, breath still hitching as his body recovered. He was still for a few minutes, just clinging to Jim, breathing. The Sentinel felt a rush of warmth and affection flow down to his toes as the smaller man snuggled closer with a contented sigh.

Then, without warning he felt his Guide's hands pushing frantically against his chest, trying to get free. Jim loosened his hold and sat back in time to see Blair clamp a hand over his mouth. The detective grimaced as his Sentinel ears picked up the sickening sound of the contents of his partner's stomach churning up his esophagus.

Blair struggled away and ran, first starting toward the bathroom. Perhaps realizing he wasn't going to make it, he quickly veered right and all but dove into the kitchen sink. The gut-wrenching sounds of vomiting echoed through the loft, and Jim had to fight down a wave of nausea himself as he hurried to stand by his young friend.

Sandburg gasped and heaved into the sink, one hand bracing himself on the edge and the other pressed to his belly. Jim stepped up behind him and wrapped an arm around his waist, offering support, and with his free hand gathered Blair's hair back and out of the line of fire. His Guide tried to speak, presumably to thank him, but another round of sickness bent him double again.

Jim just held on, rubbing gently with the hand over his partner's stomach. He could feel the unpleasant spasms and remembered that it was not an unusual side effect for a victim who had been given the Heimlich maneuver.

Blair gasped, collapsing forward over the sink as the convulsions of his gut finally subsided. Jim reached over him to the cupboard and retrieved a glass, which he filled under the tap. Never releasing his supporting hold, he held the cup under his friend's face. A beat passed before the young man weakly lifted his face and took the offering. He sipped slowly and carefully, swishing the water in his mouth and spitting. Next, he took a long swallow, but quickly leaned over the sink as it came back up.

"Ohhh, man, Jim," Blair moaned, collapsing back into his friend as the big man brought his arms up to hold him close. "My stomach hurts so bad. When is it gonna stop?" He rested his head in the crook of Jim's neck and shoulder, closing his eyes as he felt his partner's hand slide up under his shirt.

Jim ran his palm gently over Blair's belly, trying to soothe away the little spasms with his fingers. He could feel the muscles bunching and contracting as his partner struggled to keep down whatever was left in there. Leaning forward to rest his cheek against the younger man's sweaty temple, he glanced briefly at the mess in the sink. Bright red blood streaked the sides of the shiny basin.

"Oh god," Jim breathed, horrified. He turned Blair to face him and quickly seized the young face in his hands, tilting it back to look into the smaller man's eyes. They were red, and the area around them swollen, but there was no sign of disorientation. Only confusion. But the medic in him knew it was better to play it safe.

"Stay here," the Sentinel said, gently lowering Blair into a sitting position on the floor, his back against the cabinet. He didn't wait for a reply as he hurried into the living room to snatch the afghan off the back of the couch. He slung it over his shoulder as he came back to his friend's side, kneeling to help the younger man to his feet. Blair was still holding his stomach in pain, but he balanced himself against the sink as Jim wrapped him up in the afghan. Then, without ceremony, the big man scooped his partner up in his arms and hurried out the still-open door.

In record time, Blair was being carried through the automatic doors of the Cascade Hospital Emergency Room. He had his arms around Jim's neck, sweat pouring down his face as he suffered through endless waves of nauseating stomach cramps. He could tell his Sentinel friend was trying hard not to jostle him, despite his hurry. It made him smile, in spite of everything.

He closed his eyes, laying his head down on Jim's shoulder as the older man stopped at the check-in counter. He winced as Ellison went into his usual song and dance about not wanting to waste time filling out forms. Then his eyes flew open as he tuned in to what the older man was saying.

"...don't care if it's your job! Can't you see that he's in pain? I don't like the idea of just standing here to fill out some stupid paperwork while a loved one suffers, just to satisfy your bureaucratic idea of procedure! You get him a doctor, NOW!"

The pain in Blair's abdomen was drowned out by the warmth building in his heart at Jim's words. He smiled slightly and tightened his arms around his Blessed Protector's neck, snuggling more tightly against the older man's chest. Ellison didn't appear to take his attention away from the white-faced nurse behind the desk, but Blair distinctly felt the strong arms tighten slightly, holding him closer.

Apparently the detective's tirade had some effect, because a moment later, Blair was lowered with great gentleness onto a gurney. He let go of Jim's neck with some reluctance, eyes wide, a little frightened as always by the whole hospital routine. As if reading his very thoughts, Ellison leaned over him and smiled kindly, brushing a warm, hand across his forehead.

"It's okay, Chief," came the soft, caring voice. "Everything gonna be okay, now... just relax... just relax, kid...."

Sandburg nodded bravely up at his partner just before he was whisked away down the hall. He lifted his head just enough to catch a final glimpse of the big man as Jim turned and headed back toward the waiting room.

After the gurney disappeared, Jim slumped down into one of the hard plastic waiting room chairs. Now that Blair was in the hands of the doctors, the adrenaline rush sustaining him dissipated, leaving him emotionally and physically drained. Weakly, he ran his fingers through his short hair and breathed out deeply, as if he'd been holding his breath for hours.

The sounds and smells of the hospital suddenly became intolerable. He heard labored breathing from somewhere down the corridor as a patient struggled for survival. The pungent scent of blood filled his nostrils as an accident victim was wheeled past on the way to emergency surgery. He heard the grief stricken sobs of a daughter as a cool and detached doctor explained the circumstances of her father's death.

Jim tried to move past the intensity of those sounds and smells to reach out and locate his partner with his senses. Closing his eyes to shut out the sights around him, he carefully played out his hearing, concentrating as he searched for the sound of Blair's voice or his heartbeat or even the words of those who were trying to help him.

Suddenly, a metal surgical tray was dropped in the exam room next to the waiting area. It clanged to the floor and bounced several times on the hard floor. His hearing turned up to listen for Blair, the Sentinel received the jarring sound waves at their full impact. His face contorted in pain, Jim winced at the metallic clanging, his hands flying to cover his ears in an attempt to stop the noise.

At last, he lowered his hands from his ears with an overwhelming sense of failure. It was no use. There were too many distractions, too much sensory input for him to isolate the sound of one solitary heartbeat, one beloved voice.

In frustration, Jim shot to his feet and paced over to the window. He reached for his cell phone, thinking he would call Simon. He hesitated, his fingers gripping the cool plastic. He slid the phone back into his pocket.

Blair was here as a result of Jim's own self centered cruelty. Why drag Simon into it? Of course, his captain and friend would come to the hospital. Simon would say all the right words to make Jim feel better, to help him forgive himself, but to call him to the hospital would only be another selfish act on Jim's part. It wouldn't help Sandburg at all.

It was time he took responsibility for his own actions, for speaking without thinking, for lashing out blindly without considering the feelings of the one he hurt. No, Blair was here because of his actions alone, and Jim Ellison was determined that he would face whatever heartaches the long night ahead held in store alone. Alone except for the very demons his own guilt created.

And what powerful demons they were.

Part Two

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