Related Episodes: The Killers, Cypher, Hear no Evil, Secret.

Jim is here.

Thank God.

Jim is alive.

Thank God.

There is another dead body on the ground.

Another man dead at Jim's hand.

Another one.

The tally is growing so fast I'm losing count. And that's since I met him.

Who was the first man Jim had to kill? When, and under what circumstances?

It's just another one of the many secrets Jim keeps inside himself.

Just another one of the many secrets that make me wonder if I know him at all.

Another one.

He's talking with Simon now, going over the shooting. Where he was, where Oliver was, how many shots were fired, where forensics should look for the bullets and shell casings. Taking care of all the details that need to be recorded before they can sign off on it. As he goes through the dredge work, he's relaxed, exchanging joking words and friendly pats with the other officers on the scene, smiling, even laughing at times. Like it didn't bother him that he just shot a man, causing him to lose his balance and fall to his death off the roof of a building. Like it was a part of normal, everyday work for this kind of thing to happen.

I know better.

Next week he'll have an appointment with the police psychologist. He'll feed her just enough guilt, just enough remorse, just enough doubts, just enough conviction that he had no choice, that he did the right thing given the circumstances, and she'll sign off on him to return to active duty. She'll write a report saying how well-adjusted he is, how well he handles this kind of experience.

I know better.

In the beginning, back when we first started working together, he had me fooled, too. After he shot and killed the second Juno brother, I left him with Beverly. I thought I was doing him a favor. Now, I shudder at the thought. I should have stayed with him. Ignorance can cause you to hurt someone as badly as malice.

I look at him and wonder what other secrets he's keeping, wonder which one will rear its ugly head to strike at us next.

It's not that he intends to keep things from me. Well, there are things from his army days, his covert op days, that's like military secrets, government secrets, that he's not supposed to divulge. But those are not his secrets. They are the army's, the government's. Some of his personal secrets might be tied in to those things, but there are ways to tell me about them without revealing the other, public secrets. If he wanted to.

It's not that he doesn't want to tell me his secrets. It's more like it hurts too much to think about them, so he just doesn't. He doesn't intend to keep things from me. I know.

The first time he let me in, really let me in, was after Lash. Jim brought me home that night, and since I was still groggy from the drug that Lash forced down my throat, he helped me undress and tucked me into bed. He sat on the bed, and gently stroked my cheek.

"You did good, Chief," he said. "You kept your head. You did everything right."

An almost palpable sense of relief washed over me, tinged with a profound sorrow. I grabbed the hand that was stroking me and looked into his eyes, mutely asking him to stay. He kicked off his shoes and crawled onto the bed, lay down on top of the covers, and buried his face into my neck.

I felt his sorrow seep into me, his grief at the waste of a life, a life so twisted and miserable no creature should have endured it. I felt his pain at being the one to end that life, his resolve to do it again to keep me safe.

I absorbed it all, and tried to return all the affection, admiration, and gratitude I had inside me. Looking back on it now, I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been so out of it. Would Jim have reached out for me? I would have let him, I think. I don't think it is in me to deny him. Not when he needs me. Not when I feel his pain so keenly.

As it was, I fell asleep fairly quickly. I felt safe and comfortable in Jim's arms. I don't know how long he stayed, but when I woke up in the morning, I felt his presence still surrounding me, lingering in the air like an invisible shroud.

Despite his advice, I never tried very hard to make it up with Christine.

Looking back on it now, that was the night we bonded. When it became impossible for me not to feel Jim's emotions, and impossible for Jim to keep his emotions from me.

Funny, but neither of us has ever resisted this. When Jim needs me, he reaches for me. When Jim needs me, I open for him. Like in Peru.

Peru. It happened in Peru. But it would have, sooner or later.

He can't shield himself away from me. I can't block him out. He shares his pain with me, his sorrow, his rage, his despair. The parts of himself that he hides so carefully from the rest of the world.

Like the other day, when he had to shoot Tommy Yuan.

To shoot a man in cold blood. When neither he nor I was in danger. True, Yuan was about to throw Sheila out of the helicopter. Yet, there is something cold about taking aim at a target at that distance, at an opponent who is too distracted by something else to even think about shooting back, who is not even aware that you are taking aim at him, and shooting, deliberately, premeditatively, with every intent to kill. Just thinking about it sends chills running up and down my spine. To actually have to do it? Unthinkable.

Jim did it.

I don't understand how he does it, how anybody can do it. I wonder if I could do it, if I were put into that kind of circumstance. I don't know, and I don't want to find out.

Jim did it. He's done it before, and he'll do it again. It is a part of him I don't share, a part of him that neither he nor I wishes for me to share. Sometimes I wonder if it will bring us closer if I did share it, share that kind of experience. I wonder if then I could help him more. But then I think that perhaps the reason I am able to help, in what little way I can, is because I don't have that experience. I don't know. I don't really want to find out.

Afterwards, he seemed okay with it. Jovially accepting congratulations from our pilot. Genially greeting Sheila and her fiance, Stan, when they came over to thank him for saving her life. Just a regular day in the life of Jim Ellison, Detective.

I knew better.

Actually, so did Simon. He took me aside and asked me if Jim was alright.

"He will be," I promised.

Simon looked at me thoughtfully, and nodded. "Thank God he has you now," he said. "It's a relief, really."

"Say, Simon," I asked, "How did he deal with stuff like this, before?"

"Sort of like what you see over there," said Simon, gesturing toward where Jim was still chatting amiably with Sheila and Stan. "He'll keep that up for days. Sometimes weeks. Used to drive me crazy."

"Gross," I said, making a face.

"Tell me about it," said Simon. "I'd try taking him out, getting him drunk, try to get him to talk... Nothing worked." He sighed. "Don't know what it is you do, but I'm sure glad you're here." He pulled himself up suddenly, as if a thought had just occurred to him. "You don't ever get tired of taking care of him, do you?" he asked. "Ever feel like you need a hand?"

"Thanks, Simon," I smiled. "I'm all right. And if I ever need help, I think I know where to get some."

We grinned at each other in shared understanding, and I went back over to Jim.

As soon as we were alone, Jim fell silent. He drove home without saying a word, without really looking at me, even. He was just holding it together until we got home, I knew.

I barely had time to hang up my jacket before Jim latched onto me, hugging me from behind, burying his face into my neck. His emotions swirled into me, making me gasp. My knees buckled, and I slid down, pulling us both down onto our knees.

I closed my eyes and leaned back into Jim, trying to make sense of the chaotic swirl of his emotions. Anger. So much anger. Resentment. Against the man who had forced his hand. Outrage. That a cop, sworn to serve and protect, had turned against the people, turned against his own, and pulled others into the scheme, swayed others into betraying those they were sworn to protect. Grief, over the lives he had failed to save. Sorrow, over the taking of a life by his hand, no matter how corrupt that life had been.

I moaned under the onslaught of Jim's emotions. I gathered up all the love and support I could muster, offered it to him in the only way I could.

"I'm yours," I murmured.

His arms tightened convulsively around me. He took a deep, shuddering breath and let me go.

I turned around slowly and reached out to touch a hand to his face. "Bed?" I whispered.

"Bathroom first?" he said. We laughed softly, and pulled each other off the floor.

We took turns taking care of business, made our way upstairs, discarded our clothes, and slipped into bed. Neither of us mentioned food. We both knew we weren't hungry.

Jim immediately pulled me into his arms. For a long time he just held me, without moving.

"Want to talk about it?" I asked.

"No," said Jim. "You don't need to hear it, do you? You know. You always know."

"How you feel, yes," I said. "Why you feel that way, not always."

"You usually figure that out, too," Jim said.

"Are you saying I'm a good detective?" I asked.

"Actually, you are," Jim said.

I hurumphed.

"Talk to me," I said. "Tell me something. Anything."

So Jim thought about it, and finally, he told me about this puppy that had lived next door when he was little. He had wanted a pet of his own, but his father wouldn't allow it. The people next door were nice people, and they often let him play with the puppy after school. Then one day, they moved away, and the puppy went with them.

"It had this kinda long, curly, brown fur," Jim said. "Kind of like your hair, Chief."

"You think my hair looks like a dog's?" I said with mock outrage.

Jim laughed. He pulled me closer and kissed me, then turned us around so I was lying beneath him. He gently caressed my body, planting soft, worshipful kisses along every inch. He took me into his mouth, suckling softly, like a baby feeding at its mother's breast. For just the briefest second, I almost wished I had breasts for Jim to suckle.

"Jim," I murmured. I love you, I wanted to say. But I couldn't, wouldn't, say it. Not until he said it. He had to say it first. Had to acknowledge with words, both to me and to himself, what he said so eloquently with his mouth, his fingers, his body. Had to give me back, with words, what I had surrendered to him, with my body, in Peru.

I gasped, and held tightly onto his shoulders as I came. He never even got hard.

He doesn't shield himself away from me. I don't block him out. He shares his pain with me, his sorrow, his rage, his despair. The parts of himself that he hides so carefully away from the rest of the world. He gives them to me willingly, and I accept them, willingly. And yet there are so many secrets he keeps. So many things about him that I don't know. That will one day come back to haunt us.

Like this time.

There is another dead body on the ground.

Another man dead at Jim's hand.

A man from out of Jim's past. A man responsible for the crash of Jim's helicopter in Peru. A man who sent Jim and his team to their deaths for his personal gain. A man who kidnapped Jim and tried to use him to cover his tracks. A man who tried to kill Jim.

Jim is alive.

Thank God.

Jim is here.

Thank God.

The forensic team is gathering up their equipment. The coroner's van has arrived to take the body to the morgue. Pretty soon Simon will turn to me and tell me to take Jim home. There will be a silent entreaty in his eyes to take care of him. There will be a silent assurance in my eyes that I will.

We will go home. Jim will drop the calm composed mask he shows to the world, and turn to me. I will take what I can of his sorrow, anger, grief, and pain, give him back what I can of my love and reassurance. Maybe I might even get him to tell me another little secret, another little bit of his past.

And this time, I can tell him, because he finally told me. The other day, when we went out to the beach with Debra, he finally told me. This time, as he takes me into his arms, as I come in his arms, I can tell him.

I love you.