Next I need to thank all those folks who have waited and waited for this thing to be done. Five years is a looong time to wait for a fanfic sequel. Thanks for your patience!

Please note that this is a sequel to Ice Man Returneth, which was written around the time of BLACK OR WHITE, canon-wise. This story takes place not too long after that episode as well.

SEARCHES

Jim Ellison sat on the edge of Blair's bed, holding his head in his hands. He sat that way for a long, long time, thinking, worrying. For the twentieth time he re-read Blair's letter, and for the twentieth time, his heart clenched at his roommate's words.

{Dear Jim,

Oh, God, what do I say to you? First let me thank you with all my heart, for being the best friend I've ever had. I know I won't ever find anyone who even comes close to you. I want to make sure that you realize that this is not about you. It's about me, one hundred percent. I'm sorry, I know you hate to hear this from me all the time, but it's really the way I feel. I cannot let you put yourself in danger for my sake any longer. The world needs you, my sentinel friend. I can't monopolize your time any longer by constantly getting myself into these situations. You were born to protect. But to protect everyone, not just your incompetent guide. You cannot do the job you were born to do if you have to keep rescuing me all the time.

Jim, I know you. I know the first thing you're going to do is try and come after me. Please don't. You won't be able to find me, anyway. Rest assured that I am well, and doing what I set out to do in my life. Believe me things will be better this way. Your job will be much easier without having to look out for me. You'll be a better cop. Wait and see!

Is there anything else? Geez, I thought I knew exactly what I going to say to you, but my mind seems to be blanking. I guess all I want to say is thank you. Thank you for saving my life more times than I can remember. Thank you for taking me in. Thank you for caring enough to try and teach me those stupid House Rules! And yes Jim, they are stupid. But most of all, thank you for always being there when I needed you. Thank you for being my best friend.

Love, 'Chief'}

"Ohhh, Sandburg," Jim muttered, rubbing his temples. He had a headache, which he suspected would get worse. "What the hell were you thinking?"

He stood up and slowly walked around the little room, sadly noting the complete absence of any sign of his roommate. Everything of Blair was gone... erased.

Jim suddenly stopped dead still in the middle of the room as reality hit him. His friend was gone. Really gone. This wasn't some little escape, where the anthropologist would leave for a few days after fighting with him. In those cases, the young man would be gone sometimes a week, usually less. But then he always came back, they resolved their differences, and went on with life as usual.

This was different. Blair wasn't coming back, not even to move out; he'd already done so while Jim was away.

The last thought angered him. He was furious at his partner for doing this to him. Sandburg had taken the coward's way out; waiting until Jim wasn't around to pull his stupid stunt, his disappearing act.

{Damn it, why would he do that to me?} Jim thought. The answer came almost instantaneously. {Because you would've stopped him}

He glanced at the letter again, certain sentences jumping out at him.

'Oh, God, what do I say to you?'

Jim actually grinned a bit at that. Imagine, Blair Sandburg at a loss for words. Alert the media!

'...thank you with all my heart, for being the best friend I've ever had.'

{Really? Interesting way of showing it, you little....} Jim mentally hit the brakes; getting angry with the younger man wasn't going to help him solve anything.

'Your job will be much easier without having to look out for me.'

{No, Blair, it won't. Count on it!}

'...thank you for always being there when I needed you.'

{Yeah, but what about all the times I needed YOU?}

Jim stalked purposefully out of the bedroom, only to stall out and wander aimlessly around the living room.

{What am I going to do? What the HELL am I going to do?!}

He sat down on the couch for a moment, but the nervous energy forced him to his feet again to continue around the room. Helplessly, he began to look around for...what? A sign, a clue, anything to tell him to what God forsaken place his partner had run off.

{C'mon Ellison, think!}

He was a detective, after all. Part of his job was to find missing persons. How hard could it be to find Blair?

As he thought of his job, Jim glanced at his watch, and cursed. He was supposed to be at the precinct in thirty minutes. He decided he'd better call Simon, to tell him the situation.

Crossing to the kitchen, he picked up the phone and froze as he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He whirled to stare at the landing at the top of the stairs, staring toward his bedroom. For just a second, he could have sworn he'd seen a flash of black fur.

The big man shook his head and blinked rapidly a few times. There was nothing there, absolutely nothing.

{Must be stress,} he thought, lifting his finger to dial... whose number? Jim stared at the phone, wondering if he was going mad. Who had he been about to call? He stood there for a good minute, trying to get his mind back into gear.

God, was this how it was going to be without his Guide? Jim knew he wouldn't be able to do his job if he was going to be spontaneously zoning out like this.

Jim moved his finger to hit the "nine" key, which was programmed into their phone to dial Simon's number automatically at the touch of a button. As his finger moved toward the 9, the keypad seemed to gradually recede further and further. At the same time, Blair's fingerprints upon the buttons leaped out at him. They were all over the phone. He could see each swirl and whorl, winding and twisting in the intricate patterns of life. Patterns belonging to Sandburg, and Sandburg alone. As Jim began to fall into the void of a zone, his finger slipped in a near spasm, hitting the button just below the nine.

A strange voice answered, jerking him quickly back to reality. {What the hell?}

"Hello, Stockwell's Storage. This is Martin. How may I help you?"

Jim was silent for a minute, confused. A storage facility? He was still staring in wonder at his finger, trying to figure out what caused the odd spasm a few moments ago. Then, he realized exactly which button he had pushed.

Redial. Oh. That explained it, made things perfectly clear.

Clear as mud.

"Hello? May I help you?" the voice at the other end of the phone repeated. Jim quickly recovered, and was about to apologize for dialing the wrong number, when he suddenly understood the importance of the call he'd just placed.

Redial. This had been the last call Sandburg made before leaving the loft. The first marker on the trail that would lead him to his runaway partner.

"Uh, hello, yes," Jim said quickly. "Um, where are you located?" He snatched up a pen and jotted down the address as it was recited for him.

"Thank you!" Ellison quickly hung up the phone and crossed to put on his jacket. As he headed for the front door, the letter he'd dropped on the table caught his eye and he picked it up to glance at it.

'You won't be able to find me....'

"Wanna bet, Chief?" Jim grinned as he stuffed the letter into his pocket and grabbed his keys. As he was leaving he paused, taking one more look around. He had the oddest sensation he was being watched, but a quick sensory check told him he was alone in the apartment. Completely alone. Setting his jaw in determination, Jim exited the apartment to set off for Stockwell's Storage.

* * * * *

From across the street a figure stood and watched. As Ellison climbed into his blue Ford, the figure quickly pretended to be fascinated with the deserted storefront behind him, glancing casually over his shoulder as he heard the vehicle's door slam shut.

The figure pulled a small gun from his belt and aimed at the rear of the Ford as Ellison was backing out of his parking space. There was a tiny "Pop" and a small sensor shot from the barrel of the gun to stick to the bumper as the Ford drove away.

Erich Zeller smiled coldly as he put the gun away, and quickly moved down the street to his car. He hopped in and activated the small electronic monitor on the passenger seat beside him. A grid of city streets popped up on the tiny view screen, and the man grinned as a tiny blue dot appeared, beeping steadily up the street marked "Prospect."

* * * * *

Blair flexed his jaw and yawned, trying to un-pop his ears. He looked out the window of the small plane, but all he could see was a wall of whiteness as the large jet descended through the thick layer of clouds on its final approach.

With a sigh, the young man sat back in his seat. He was thinking about Jim again, wondering if his friend had found the letter he'd left... found the room under the stairs, empty.... He swallowed hard as his throat stung and tightened, as he thought of his partner calling out a greeting to him upon his return home, probably eager to tell him about his weekend trip.

{Maybe this was a bad idea,} he thought. Maybe he should call Jim as soon as he landed, and make arrangements to come home.

Blair shook his head. No. No, he couldn't start second guessing himself. In his heart, he felt he had done the right thing.

{Sure, you did the right thing. He'll be fine. He'll be better than fine, without you around to cause problems.}

The anthropologist blinked. Boy, his inner voice could be mean when it wanted to be!

The plane shuddered a little, sending his stomach fluttering, and he seized the arms of his seat with a vise-like grip. Oh, he did NOT like flying. He glanced out the window, immediately wishing he hadn't as he saw the ground rushing up. He closed his eyes tightly, bracing himself at the BA-BUMP as the plane's wheels touched down. The aircraft's retro engines fired with a deafening roar, and Blair and the other passengers leaned back in their seats against the powerful velocity as the great plane slowed.

Once the aircraft had begun its taxi to the gate, the captain's voice came on and advised everyone to remain seated. As if on cue, the passengers began bustling about, standing to get their belongings from the overhead bins. He got to his feet and waited patiently as the couple in the seats beside him retrieved their bags from the bin.

Blair watched, dreading the next moments when he'd have to struggle to get his own property down; the world was not built for short people. As usual, his things had shifted to the very back of the deep storage compartment. Blair was considering asking the gentleman to get his stuff down for him, when the tall man met his eyes and smiled.

"Shall I get yours, too?" he asked.

Blair smiled gratefully up at the fellow, who stood over six feet tall.

"Thanks man, that'd be great," he said with a sigh, shrugging "They just don't think of people like me when they make planes, I guess." The big man and his wife chuckled as Blair reached out to take his backpack and carry-on bag.

"No problem, friend. It's the least we can do; in exchange for those fascinating stories you shared with us. What an adventurous life you've had!" The man and his wife stepped out into the aisle to make room for Blair to precede them.

The woman patted him on the shoulder as she said, "Well, I hope you have a nice visit in Alaska. What brings you here, anyway?"

{A cowardly escape...} Blair's mind muttered. He ignored it, or tried to, as he replied, "Oh, just exploring.... Another search." He flashed his characteristic little half-smile as he shouldered his bag.

* * * * *

Jim pulled up in front of Stockwell's storage facility, parked the truck, and jumped out. He looked around at the rows and rows of large metal storage sheds, and then moved across the parking lot to the tiny office house.

The man behind the desk glanced up as he entered. "Are you Martin?" Jim asked.

"Yes, sir! What can I do for you today?" Martin asked cheerfully, setting aside the paperback detective novel he'd been reading. Ellison pulled out his shield and displayed it. The man's face fell, and he looked up uncertainly at Jim, obviously wracking his brain for some reason the police would be paying a call.

Jim smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, you're not in trouble." He heard the man's heartbeat resume normal speed. His sentinel ears had picked up a slight acceleration of the beat as he presented the shield, but not enough to arouse any suspicion. Reaching into his wallet now, he displayed a picture of Blair he'd gotten from Naomi when she'd visited.

"This man rented storage space from this place within the last few days. His name is Blair Sandburg. Have you seen him?" Jim handed the picture over to the chubby fingers of Martin, and watched as the elderly man studied the photograph.

"No, sorry, sir. I haven't seen him," Martin said, shaking his head.

Jim sighed in disappointment.

Martin continued, "But the name is familiar, " he began leafing through his ledger, running a finger along the column of names. "Sandburg, Sandburg, AHA! Here it is... Number 34458."

Jim watched as Martin unlocked the small storage shed and slid the metal door up. The big detective ducked his head as he entered, and began wandering among the multitude of boxes containing Blair's belongings. He grinned at the familiar sight of tribal masks leering up at him from one or two of the open boxes.

He didn't really know what he was looking for, just hoping to get some clue as to where his Guide had taken off. Standing in the center of the room, he breathed deeply, smiling at Blair's familiar scent... and something else. Jim wrinkled his nose as he turned in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the strong chemical odor.

"Sir? Is everything all right?" Martin asked nervously as he watched the cop slowly rotate, apparently scanning the area for something. Then the officer swiftly crossed to a large box, seemingly no different from any of the others, and opened it. He reached out in alarm to grab Jim's arm as the detective reeled backwards with a gasp.

"Are you OK?" the older man asked nervously, trying to determine what had caused his guest's reaction.

Rubbing his stinging eyes as the overpowering scent of mothballs began to clear, Jim nodded his thanks to Martin. He took a moment to carefully tuned down his sense of smell before kneeling to look into the box. The powerful odor had demanded his immediate attention for a reason; it was a new smell, something he never smelled in the loft. That had to mean there was something about the scent that had to do with Blair's leaving.

He reached into the box and pulled out a few items. Clothing. Lightweight clothing, shorts and T-shirts. Jim rummaged further into the box, and found more of the same. It seemed that every piece of warm-weather clothing Blair owned was in this box. No jackets. No gloves. No sweaters.

Jim stood up, hands on hips, and turned his sense of smell up as he directed it to the other boxes. None of the other boxes contained mothballs, meaning that any other clothes or textiles were probably not present.

{Wherever Blair is, it's cold,} Jim deduced as he moved among the boxes. He halfheartedly searched the rest of the storage area for some clue as to his partner's whereabouts, but found nothing else that was the least bit helpful.

A glimpse of familiar green faux leather caught his eye. Jim bent down, shuffling aside a lopsided pile of books to retrieve the object partially buried beneath. Blair's passport.

{He hasn't left the country,} Jim thought, {Wherever he is, he's still in the U.S.} Somehow, the thought that his partner wasn't halfway around the world brought a small measure of comfort. He slipped the passport in his jacket pocket.

"Thanks for your time, Martin," the detective said, patting the elderly man on the shoulder as they turned toward the door. Jim hung his head as he walked into the sunlight, turning toward his truck.

"Sorry I couldn't be of more help, sir," Martin said regretfully. He was watching Ellison move across the parking lot, when a thought suddenly occurred to him. "Oh! Detective?" he called, reaching into his pocket for his notepad. He gestured for the big man to come forward as he flipped through the pages, looking for Sandburg's contact information.

"Here," Martin said, looking up as the taller man came to stand at his elbow. He pointed to the phone number beside Blair's name. "This is the number the young man left to contact, in case there was any trouble." Martin grinned as the detective's face broke into a smile.

Jim quickly pulled a pen from Martin's shirt pocket and jotted the number down on his forearm. It wasn't the number at the loft, nor was it Blair's number at Rainier. So whose number was it? Would they know where Sandburg had fled? With a wide smile and heartfelt thanks, Jim hurried to his truck, new hope lightening his step.

* * * * *

Blair paused again in his trek, shifting the heavy pack that pressed down on his shoulders. He squinted against the wind toward the horizon, where Limu was waving him along with a large mittened hand.

"Come on, Blair!" the Metlakatla called cheerfully. "It's not much further, just through those trees!" The man pointed toward the thick cluster of evergreens on the horizon before starting along again.

Blair took a deep breath, shouldered his pack again, and trudged onward. His feet crunched through the thin layer of new snow with each step, coming to rest on the thick layer of icy base beneath. The cold Alaskan wind picked up again, blowing his curls up into a wild halo around his face.

As he walked, he thought of Jim. It seemed the image of the big man rarely left his mind anymore. It had been one week since he'd fled the loft, sneaking out while Jim was away on a vacation. That week had been spent making careful arrangements with a fellow teaching Fellow at the University.

Dwight Simmons had been scheduled to do field time in Alaska, studying the effect of the white man's influence on a native tribe there. But the young man had been struck with a mild case of hepatitis, and his doctor ordered him not to make the trip.

Fortunately, Blair has found out about the planned and ruined trip during a visit with Dwight at the hospital the day before he moved out of the loft. The other student's story had started the wheels turning in Sandburg's head. He needed a way to disappear, to get out of Jim's life. Plus, he had to do it in a way that the sentinel would not be able to track him down.

He pitched his idea to Dwight as the young man listened, eyes growing wide. Basically, this angel in the form of Blair Sandburg was willing to make the trip for him, meet the accompanying professors involved, and do his research for him. All Blair asked for in return was secrecy. Since the whole scheme was shady at best, illegal at worst, Dwight readily agreed not to let on that Blair would be taking the trip instead of him. The check from the university to cover the trip would be cashed, as planned, and then Blair would take the funds and use them himself.

Nobody would need to know that it was Blair, rather than Dwight doing the field study in Alaska. Blair would apply for a leave from Rainier, so no one there would care that he had dropped out of sight. It was a six-month project, and when Blair returned, he would pick up and move on, as he'd been taught to do whenever things got tough. His trail would go cold and there would be no way for Jim to track him down.

He'd made the right decision. Jim would be a much more efficient cop without him. Blair smiled sadly as he realized exactly how much better off the sentinel would be, now that he didn't have to dedicate a large portion of his attention to keeping his partner safe. Now, Blair had Dwight's research documents in his backpack, enough forged identification papers to satisfy anyone that he was indeed Dwight Simmons, and plenty of research to keep his fertile mind occupied for months to come.

But... Alaska. Why the hell did it have to be Alaska? Damn, it was cold here. "I hate the cold," Blair muttered under his breath. There was no use crying over what might have been. With a deep sigh, he lifted his head and picked up his pace, jogging through the snow toward what would be his home for the next half a year.

* * * * *

Washington State Penitentiary was a stark, white glare against the sky as Father Dietrich hurried along. He glanced up at the cold-looking building and straightened his jacket, adjusting his collar as he moved through the glass doors. The man of the cloth was signed in, and ushered into the cellblock where the source of his summons was imprisoned.

"Make it quick," the guard ordered, as he opened Klaus Zeller's cell. He ushered Father Dietrich through the door, then relocked it securely. The guard shook his head as he moved away down the hall, wondering who had made the rules that prisoners, even those like Zeller, had the right to see the clergy upon request.

As the guard's footsteps faded, Father Dietrich tuned to face the man standing before him in the cell. He stepped forward and laid his hand on The Ice Man's shoulder, smiling gently.

"Well, my son," he said softly, "Once again, you have wandered from God's holy path... and royally screwed up." The 'priest' chuckled, and tugged Zeller forward into a hug.

Klaus had to smile, in spite of his situation, at his twin brother's teasing. He embraced Erich warmly, patting him on the back before allowing the other man to step back. He watched as Erich reached up and carefully peeled away his moustache and wig, followed by the layer of latex that disguised his identity. Klaus' smile widened as he watched the face he saw in the mirror every morning slowly revealed from beneath the rubber appliances.

"It's good to see you again, Erich," Klaus said warmly, taking the disguise from his brother's hands. "Or should I say, good to see ME again." The two brothers shared a laugh as they began to strip out of their clothes.

Several years ago, in Germany, Erich and Klaus had been an inseparable team, able to accomplish anything. Both knew what the other was thinking, it seemed, allowing them to work with flawless precision together. Then, there was the accident. Klaus' face had been all but destroyed while opening a mail bomb meant for his brother. The doctors had saved his life, but could not save his face. Then Erich had had his epiphany.

What if an assassin existed that could be seemingly in two places at once? An assassin who would always be able to provide an airtight alibi by always managing to be somewhere else at the same time he was allegedly knocking off some high-ranking official or other?

Erich had proposed his idea to his disfigured brother. Klaus had immediately taken to the plan, and together, he and his fraternal twin had paid a visit to an old friend. An old friend who just happened to be an excellent plastic surgeon, famous in the European crime world for helping wanted men disappear.

Almost seven months later the final bandages had come off, and Erich and Klaus had stood side-by-side at the mirror, staring. It was beyond what they had expected. Two men who had begun life as fraternal twins were now, to the casual observer, identical.

Erich shook his head, still amazed today by the surreal experience of seeing someone else wearing his face. His brother's voice pulled him out of his introspection.

"Were you able to track the anthropologist?" Klaus buttoned the dark jacket of "Father Dietrich".

"I was," Erich replied, nodding as he shrugged into the gray coveralls that made up the prison's attire. "He's in Alaska, with a tribe residing a couple hundred miles south of Juneau. Metlakatla, I think they were called." Erich finished changing and spread his arms for his brother's inspection.

"Good, good," The Ice Man said as he looked his brother over. "And Ellison?" His voiced grew cold with hatred at the name.

Erich smiled. "Searching rather desperately for his little friend. He hasn't been back to work since the young man took off." The German handed Klaus the latex, wig and moustache of the Father Dietrich identity, then reached out to adjust the white collar tab at his brother's throat.

"He's been spending time at the University, asking around there if anyone knows where Sandburg is. You'll probably be able to use that," Erich added, watching his brother apply the latex to his face. "There is a piece of paper taped to the underside of the dashboard of the car with some information on it you should be able to use as well."

"Excellent, Erich," Zeller muttered as he adjusted his wig. "What about the professor?"

His brother's eyes never wavered. "That problem has been eliminated. No one will ever guess the whereabouts of the true Professor Schindler. I have also confirmed that he and Mr. Sandburg have never met."

Zeller nodded his approval. "Then, all is well."

Five minutes later the transformation was complete. When the guard came to escort Father Dietrich out of the cell, he had no idea that it was actually the cold-blooded killer known as 'The Ice Man' walking beside him to freedom.

Erich Zeller watched his brother from the cell that would be his temporary home. He would be a prisoner here only until Klaus was able to finish off Ellison and his partner. The Ice Man would return and help him escape.

"Good luck, brother," Erich breathed softly, moving to lie down on the tiny cot in the corner of the cell.

* * * * *